A/N: Ok, this is my first fanfic like ever. So please people, don't be rude.

I came up with this after watching Zombie Island on tv and liked the idea of the gang coming back together after years of being apart, after that I imagined how would things be if they had suffered something terrible and they were suffering from PTSD.

English isn't my natural language, it's Spanish; so if something is wrong please excuse me and let me know so I can fix it.

Disclaimer: Don't own Scooby-Doo nor the gang, they belong to Warner.

This is short and just Fred-centric. If I continue into another chapter we may have longer chapters and see more characters.

--SDNT--

Fred I - Four and Below

Fred's gaze was lost in the storm; his forehead flattened against the cold glass of the eighth-floor window of a Chicago TV station; watching the drops of water fall into the night; contemplating and remembering; remembering a night not so different from this one, exactly four years ago.

He could almost swear that the crash of machinery, mingled with that of a scream, reached his ears. Detaching his forehead from the glass he shook his head, trying to clear it but to no avail. 'Why is it so difficult to forget?' He asked himself. 'I wish that I could forget the sounds at least'. With a hollow 'thunk' he dropped his forehead against the glass again, before closing his eyes and letting himself be carried away by the memories.

That night hadn't been so different, a thunderous storm had also been pouring; and he could still remember the sound of heavy drops hitting the tin roof of an old warehouse in New Mexico. Silence pervading the night beyond the storm. They were following the leads of mysterious disappearances that had been plaguing the locals of a small town. How he wished he had never entered that place. How he wished he had dropped the case when the rest of the gang had asked him to. But he hadn't listened, and they hadn't abandoned him. 'I wish that they had run away and left me alone when they had the chance'.

"Fred, we're on air in five" his manager, Bronson Marsden, interrupted his thoughts. "Ready boy?"

For a few seconds he didn't answer, and just kept his gaze on the falling storm.

"Fred? Everything okay?" Marsden asked with a little of alarm in his voice.

"Yeah. On my way." Fred answered in barely a whisper, without turning to face him.

Still not convinced, but deciding not say anything else, Marsden left. He was a good guy; he knew when to walk away and let him be. He had never told him about that night. It wasn't like he would believed him anyway; 'Those guys in black suits and ties' had done a good job covering everything up so they wouldn't look bad. 'Fuckers', he thought scornfully. It had been a luck that they hadn't been covered up too; or maybe not so much.

The heavy sound was still there, in the background, increasing , and now it seemed like there were more screams.

It had taken a while, but they had managed to get by; or at least that's what he thought. About seven months after that night and countless hours wandering around the country, Marsden had found him at a filthy bar in Chicago and proposed him to be the host of a silly TV show. Fred had sent him to hell immediately, but Marsden had continue insisting, arguing that the show, if done, would be an immediate success and would bring them a lot of profit. The poor guy had had no idea what Fred was going through and couldn't know that the last thing he could care about was money. But there had been something that had caught his attention; the spotlight the show would bring to him; and it wasn't that he was interested in fame, but he had remembered what daddy's guys in black suits and tie had asked them to do: keep a low profile; Well, there was no better way to rub all his anger and frustration on his idiot father's face than by appearing on national TV.

That was how he had ended up here, three years later and still being the host of The Tonight Mystery with Freddie Jones. Remembering where he was, he turned around and headed toward the set; as he walked he shook his head again, trying to concentrate and stop remembering the past; but he couldn't help it.

During the following months the show had premiered and become a success. Hundreds of calls had entered his phone; among them, the rest of the gang, congratulating him briefly and curtly; and even one from his father, demanding him to leave the program and return with him to Washington D.C.; at least that had worked out perfectly.

After that he hadn't had much more contact with the gang; In fact, the little contact had been in the first seven months after that night, after the show it had been pulling more to nothing. It wasn't like he didn't want to call but just couldn't find the courage or a reason to do so; so he had let time pass and thus they had spent little more than two years without exchanging a call.

Without even noticing it, he reached his desk and sat down, looking straight ahead and closing his eyes for the makeup artist to clear his face. In the background the sound of machinery and cries of despair were beginning to get louder and his breathing faster; but he tried to ignore them along with his increasing heart rate. Squeezing his eyelids tightly, he tried thinking of something else, but it was impossible with the unbearable background noise. Screams and more screams, mingled with each other and with some new sounds: a maniacal laugh and the sound of a gun being prepared; more screams, more and more desperate and ... Pam!.

"NO!" Fred yelled, opening his eyes and quickly getting to his feet, knocking the makeup artist in the process.

Turning his eyes right and left he could see the rest of the staff watching him with questioning glances; preferring to stop playing dumb, he turned his gaze to the young woman and helped her to her feet.

"Mmh. Er. Sorry" he said, uncertainly "Er. I think I'm fine now. Thank you Lisa.

Without registering what he was doing, he put on his blue jacket, adjusted his orange tie, and sat down again, trying to gain some concentration; the show was already about to begin.

"On air on ...5...4...3..." The director began the countdown to zero, starting the program and playing the loud opening song, which irritated him so much.

"Welcome again folks, to The Tonight Mystery with Freddie Jones! "

Unlike other nights; when Fred greeted his audience with a perfect smile and a light joke to amuse everyone; tonight he just stared straight at the camera without saying a word. It was as if he weren't really there, his thoughts being dragged into the past. He was listening to Bronson's distant voice, which was really only coming from the earpiece through which they were communicating. Regaining concentration, he cleared his throat and drew a perfect smile, finally welcoming the audience.

"Well, that was awkward right" he joked, earning a round of laughs from the audience. "Sorry guys, just trying to figure out something, but let's not go there right now, first let's receive our 'number one' guest.

Today's guest star was a respectable; according to many, although Fred didn't buy it; UFO sighting researcher. A certain Professor Charle Cujhan, whom Fred had never heard of before Bronson proposed him for the show. But still, keeping the facade, he received him with a:

"Give a big round of applause to my old friend and colleague Charle Cujhan, professor of occult sciences," ha, ha, yeah right. "and UFO researcher".

At that moment a squat and thin little man with an unfriendly face entered the stage; he was dressed in a worn gray suit, wearing large square glasses, and under the armpit he held a medium size leather briefcase.

Sighing lightly, Fred rose to his feet and extended his arm to meet him with a handshake. But when the man reached his place he didn't even looked at him, he sat in his chair and began to rummage through his briefcase, leaving Fred standing like an idiot. A little taken aback, he cleared his throat and addressed the man.

"Er. Charle, are you there buddy?" he asked in a cheerful voice, although internally he wanted nothing more than to drop into his chair and close his eyes in exasperation.

Seeming to finally notice his presence, Charle turned to him and responded with an squeak of a voice

"Oh, how are you? Happy to be here tonight." seriously, he felt like his ears were buzzing.

Clearing his left ear with the tip of his finger; trying to diminish the buzzing without much success; Fred took the little guy's hand without permission and gave it a quick shake, surprising his guest.

"Oh well I'm also happy that you agreed to come today" ' not really, I really wish you had refused', he tought as he sat; with his left finger still trying to clear his ear, but it seemed as if the buzzing was only getting louder. "Well, what interesting data are you going to delight us with today?" he finally asked not without a touch of sarcasm.

To which the guy processed to enter into an endless and boring explanation of data and information that didn't got to anitihing in the end. Seriously, the entire alien conspiracy lost its touch of fun and entertainment told from this guy's perspective. 'Really Bronson, where do you get these people?'.

While Charle went on and on with his presentation, while showing documents that he took from his portfolio. 'Don't you have a photo or something? That would be entertaining at least'. Fred just got more and more exasperated as the buzzing just got louder and louder. Trying to distract himself with something more interesting, he turned his attention to the doors, solid gray, with a window each and through which he could distinguish the shadows of a lot people parked in front of them. Paying more attention, he noticed that there was an argument taking place and the figures were struggling with each other; some wanting to go through and others stopping them from doing so.

Bit by bit the squeaky voice transformed into a kind of a mocking squawk and the sound of arguing merged with the buzz already present. With a heavy sigh, Fred fell fully back into his chair, placing a palm over one ear while with the other hand loosen his tie; trying to release a little the pressure that he was starting to feel; still being able to hear the distant sound of Bronson's voice coming from his earpiece.

With the feel of a drop of sweat rolling down his forehead, he began to remember that night again, in which drops of sweat had also beaded his face and a mad laugh couldn't be stop from being heard.

Unable to take it any longer, he jumped out of his chair and shouted.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!!"

Slowly opening his eyelids, he saw the audience in silence and looking at him in surprise; and next to him, Charle, with his mouth open like a fish, having been interrupted in the middle of the sentence, and holding a photograph of a place that seemed curiously familiar. At the door the bustle continued with more force.

"What the hell was that Fred?!" in his ear, Bronson scolded him with annoyance.

"I-" a vibration in his trousers bag interrupted his answer. Taking out his cell phone, he answered without watching who was calling. "Here Fred"

"Fred!" answered an exalted voice over the phone. "Fred, it's Velma. Something ... something has happened."

"Velma?" he was surprised to say the least, not at all expecting her to call him after such long time.

"I-I don't even know h-how to say this" said Velma with a shaky and panicked voice. Taking a deep breath, she continued. "Fred the police has-"

The loud bang of the doors opening prevented him from hearing the rest, as five, huge, black-clad subjects forcibly entered the studio, still fighting with the much smaller security guards.

"Frederick Jones !. FBI !." one of the agents announced in a shrill voice, showing his badge as he shook off the guard who was preventing him from reaching Fred. "We need you to come with us. You need to testify about your involvement in the Rogers case.

Fred felt that the atmosphere of the place immediately cooled, leaving everything in silence

"The Rogers Case?" he asked in nearly a whisper, a knot forming in his throat; forgetting Velma on the phone. "What could have happened? That was four years ago."

"Well...that's the bizarre part." sudenly the agent locked very uncomfortable. Swallowing he said. "Somehow we've found Norville Rogers' body... again."

Fred's eyes widened at the last words. He felt like everything was beginning to spin and as the air were leaving his lungs.

In his hand, clenched tightly, he still held the phone. Velma's voice now audible in the piercing silence.

"Fred? Fred, did you hear me?... t-they f-found S-S-Shaggy's body" the perceptible terror in Velma's tearful and choppy voice. "I don't understand Fred !, I don't understand!"

--SDNT--

A/N: Ok, there it is. The first chapter. Still don't have all the plot line planed, but I have a basic concept of what I would like to do. So readers, hope you liked it and if you did leave a comment to let me know if I should continue this, if not also let me know so I can move to other things.