Yes, yes, yet another Glee-zombie fic. But they're just so damn entertaining, y'know?

I already have the first couple chapters written in my head, so…enjoy!

Rachel always figured that when the end of the world came, there would be some warning beforehand. An asteroid hurtling towards the earth, perhaps, that would give her ample enough time to bid her loved ones goodbye, or counting down the days to December 21, 2012, the date that some ancient civilization had specifically pinpointed.

It was just her luck that when she and her peers were looking forward to graduating high school and entering the "real world" in mere months, it decided to end. Though when she later reflected on it, it was entirely appropriate that the world had gone to hell on a Monday morning.

Rachel had woken up at 6:00 on the dot that day, as usual. She spent an hour on the elliptical, staring at a star-shaped Post-it with 'Broadway' written on it, as usual. And her iPod was on full blast in her ears, as usual.

What was not usual were the confused murmurs downstairs that turned into alarmed yells and agonized shrieks before cutting off into an ominous silence. Of course, Rachel couldn't hear anything, ominous or otherwise, since not only did she have her iPod's volume cranked up, but her room had also been soundproofed. Her fathers had looked at each other after the third noise complaint they'd received, shrugged, and said, "What's the harm in soundproofing her room?"

Hah.

-000-000-

Rachel took out her headphones and wiped away her sweat with a towel. A light exercise regime before school always invigorated her.

She hopped off the elliptical and was headed for her bathroom when something thudded against the door.

Rachel paused. "Daddy?" Hiram Berry liked to check up her in the mornings to make sure she wouldn't be late, however rare an occurrence that was.

The thudding intensified at the sound of her voice. It wasn't so much as knocking as someone throwing themselves bodily at the door.

The brunette frowned in unease, thinking up of one dramatic scenario to another. What if it was someone planning to abduct her and hold her hostage? Or if it was some crazed burglar looking to take advantage of an innocent teenage girl? She reached for the closest thing she had to a weapon: a rather heavy trophy she had won in a dance competition.

Rachel Berry had no idea that her penchant for dramatics would end up saving her life.

She shrieked when the lock on the door finally gave way with a loud crack. It slowly swung open on its hinges, revealing her Daddy.

Her Daddy, whose eyes were a blank milky white and had dark red liquid spilling down his chin, dripping onto a shirt soaked entirely in crimson.

"Daddy? What's going on?" Rachel's voice trembled. There was no way—no freaking way—

Hiram Berry bared his teeth and lunged for her. Rachel screamed and instinctively swung the trophy down as hard as she could.

Its marble base connected with the top of Hiram's head with a sickening crunch. She flinched at the sight of pink brain matter peeking through the gash on her father's head, terrified brown eyes widening when her father slowly stumbled back to his feet.

"This can't be happening, this can't be happening—" Rachel muttered under her breath.

But it was. And despite all evidence to the contrary, Rachel could be quite calm and levelheaded when necessary. So when Hiram reached grasping fingers toward her again, Rachel whispered "Sorry, Daddy," and bashed her father in the head until it was more brain than hair.

Once the body had finally stopped moving, for crying out loud, Rachel couldn't stop herself from throwing up. Her tank top was flecked with blood and brain matter, blood was dripping down her dance trophy, and oh yes, did she forget to mention that she just killed her Daddy?

She numbly stared down at what remained of Hiram Berry. He was a small man, not much taller than her, and the one whom she inherited a love for musicals from. Her Dad always said—

Rachel gasped. "Dad!" Her Daddy had already been covered in blood when he came upstairs…

She tightened her grip on the bloody trophy in her hand and cautiously descended the stairs. Rachel always prided herself on her superior hearing abilities; granted, it seemed a lot more useful now than when she used it to detect pitch in her Glee Club teammates' singing voices.

The house was empty of noise. Rachel tried to steady her trembling hands as she summed up the nerve to look into the kitchen. She took a deep breath and peeked around the corner.

The sight of her Dad—tall, proud Leroy Berry—lying prone on the floor with his throat entirely mangled, his head attached to his shoulders by mere threads, made her feel simultaneously devastated and relieved. Devastated because, well, he was dead. Relieved because she didn't have to face the prospect of fighting her six-foot-four Dad—she would never have survived.

Bloody footsteps led out the open front door. Rachel assumed the zombie (for she had seen enough movies to know that was what was going on right now: a freaking zombie apocalypse) who had attacked her fathers probably infected Hiram before the both of them took down Leroy. Then Hiram wandered upstairs, attracted by the sound of Rachel's elliptical, while the first zombie left through the door again.

Rachel shut and locked the door before conducting a quick search throughout her house that left her heart pounding. Once she made sure that she was alone and double-checked to make sure all doors and windows were locked, Rachel sat down and turned on the news.

The handsome face of Rod Remington stared gravely at her. "Ladies and gentlemen, there is a highly infectious contagion spreading throughout the United States, transmitted through contact with blood or saliva. The disease causes quick death before reanimation occurs. This is not a joke. I repeat, the disease is spread through saliva or blood."

First things first: there was no way she could stay here. Not only would it be unpleasant to hang around her fathers' dead bodies, it had been proven just how easy it was to get into the Berry home.

She took two sheets to drape over her fathers' bodies before dragging two duffel bags from her closet. Changing into a more practical outfit of jeans and a t-shirt, complete with leather jacket for additional protection, Rachel stuffed one bag with clothes and medical supplies from her bathroom. The other she packed with nonperishable food items, several flares, a short-wave radio, and several flashlights. After watching Day After Tomorrow, 10 year-old Rachel had insisted that their house be adequately prepared for natural disasters at all times. 17 year-old Rachel rationalized that emergency supplies could also be used for unnatural disasters.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, she needed a weapon. Her Dad was—had been—a firefighter in the Lima Fire Department. She tiptoed into his study, a place she had rarely entered before zombies appeared, and grabbed the fire axe he kept at hand. Rachel took his high school baseball bat, too, for good measure.

Hiram's study, on the other hand, seemed like the last place anyone would look for a weapon, with its tasteful decoration and photographs of the Berry family scattered about. Rachel headed for the bottom drawer, where one of her Daddy's secret hobbies lay. Few people knew Hiram had been an avid hunting enthusiast, or at least had been until Rachel demanded that he stop. She was morbidly thankful to see that he hadn't gotten rid of his shotgun.

Rachel put up her hair into a ponytail and brought her survival supplies into the connected garage, tossing the bags into her Dad's Range Rover. It wasn't the most environmentally friendly car, but she doubted it mattered anymore. Zombie apocalypse trumped global warming any day.

A thick envelope on the kitchen table caught Rachel's eyes as she did a last-minute check. A lump formed in her throat when she saw it had been addressed to her from Juilliard.

Rachel sat down, trying to ignore the sheet-clad form of her Dad on the floor, and opened the envelope.

Dear Miss Berry,

We are delighted to inform you of your admission into our Drama Division program for fall 2012…

Her breathing grew shallow. This—this was so fucking unfair, it was ridiculous. A sob wrenched out of her for the life she could've had before she clamped her jaw shut. Her fathers were gone and she was alone—tears wouldn't help with anything. A cold numbness settled over her. Survival was the only important thing now.

Her attention was drawn to the TV again. "Avoid all contact with the afflicted. Do not attempt to seek out friends or family. Remain in your homes at all costs," the anchorman intoned, obviously trying to keep from panicking.

Rachel scoffed and turned off the TV. She never liked Rod Remington, anyway.

She climbed into the Range Rover and turned on the ignition, feeling the car rumble to life underneath her. Taking a deep breath, Rachel lifted the garage door remote and pressed the button.

Brittany was woken up by something very large landing on her face.

"Oof." She rolled over and glared blearily at her cat. "For the last time, Lord Tubbington, learn how to make your own coffee!"

The cat uncharacteristically hissed at her and, belying his enormous size, jumped onto the windowsill and disappeared.

Brittany blinked and scrambled to the window. "Tubby! I was just kidding; of course I'll make you coffee! Come back!" She grabbed a sweatshirt and ran out the door.

The blonde rushed down the stairs and ran past her mother, who stretched out a hand towards her with a moan. "Hi, Mom! Bye, Mom!"

She ran out the open door with a chuckle and shook her head; her mother always shuffled around like a zombie before she had her morning coffee. Now, where was Lord Tubbington?

Brittany brightened at seeing her cat lounging on Quinn's porch a few houses down. She sidestepped a woman staggering towards her—"Morning, Mrs. Clarke"—and jogged towards Quinn's. She scooped up her cat into her arms with an affectionate smile before looking thoughtfully towards Quinn's door. Since she was here, she might as well wish Quinn a good morning.

Brittany knocked loudly on the door. As she turned around to wait for the door to open, the blonde was surprised to see everyone on the block staring at her.

She stepped back with a nervous frown; she always did get stage fright, and the way Mrs. Clarke was eyeing her (and the tomato juice the old woman had spilled down her front) was making her uneasy. "Quinn, open the door."

Brittany squeaked when the door suddenly opened and an arm shot out to drag her in by the collar. Lord Tubbington hissed.

"Quinn?"

Rachel drove down the street, frowning at the unraveling of the world as she passed. Two zombies tearing into a mailman on the sidewalk. Terrified parents running away from their infected children. The brunette shook her head and continued driving, thankful that the streets were mostly empty of cars.

Rachel had no destination in mind except for 'out of Lima' and chuckled humorlessly at the fact that at least that goal still remained the same. So she was rather surprised to see Santana Lopez jogging away from several zombies, spitting English and Spanish curses all the way.

"Fucking hijos de puta! When I find a bat to beat the shit out of you, you're gonna wish you were dead again!" Santana shouted. Her stalkers paid no heed, lumbering ungainly after the Latina.

Despite the cheerleader's ever-sharp tongue, Rachel could see Santana was getting tired. She figured having someone moderately sane to talk to would be a nice change, even if it was Santana. She honked the horn.

Santana's head whipped to the side. So did the zombies'. Rachel waved and reached over to open the passenger door.

Santana sprinted over and threw herself into the car, slamming the door just in time for several hands to pound against the window, accompanied by ghastly moans.

"Drive, Berry, drive!"

Rachel stepped on the gas. She glanced at the rearview mirror to see the zombies trying to follow the car. "Seatbelt."

Santana stopped gasping for breath long enough to look at her incredulously. "What?"

"Put on your seatbelt," Rachel said quietly.

"I don't know about you, Berry, but I'm more concerned about other stuff, like, I don't know, those undead things trying to eat us?" Santana snapped.

Rachel hit the brakes. Santana snapped forward and nearly hit her head on the dashboard before shooting Rachel a panicked look. "What the hell are you doing?"

"We're not moving until you put on a seatbelt."

Santana looked outside to see the undead citizens of Lima shuffling towards them in interest. "Are you shitting me?"

Rachel stared at her stoically before Santana jerked the seatbelt over her torso and hurriedly motioned for Rachel to start moving. Rachel nodded in satisfaction and resumed driving.

"Ay Dios Mio, I always knew you were a little fucking insane, but now it's been officially proven! I swear to God—"

Rachel tuned out Santana's ranting until she heard her say, "Make a left here."

The shorter brunette gave her passenger a puzzled glance. "Why?"

Santana scowled at her. "Weren't you listening to what I just said, Berry? God, how the tables have turned." She shook her head. "We have to go pick up Brittany."

"Santana, I wasn't even planning on picking you up. You just happened to be there."

"So what, you're just planning to leave everyone behind?" Santana said incredulously.

"Whatever it takes to survive."

"Rachel, if you don't turn around right now, so help me God I will leave you tied up in the middle of the street as a gift for every fucking zombie in Ohio."

Rachel looked over at the use of her first name. The Latina looked like she was 2 seconds away from carrying out her threat, but it was her desperation that made Rachel relent.

She made a U-turn. "Call her and tell her we'll be there in 5 minutes."

They sat in tense silence as the phone remained glued to Santana's ear.

"Britt-Britt? Oh, thank God," Santana sighed out. Rachel was slightly jealous Santana still had something to be thankful about. "Where are you? At Quinn's? Why are you there?"

Rachel couldn't make out what Brittany was saying, but Santana nodded. "Okay, hang on, we're coming to get you. Fine, fine, Quinn, too. Don't let anyone into the house, okay? And don't let anyone bite you." Santana hesitated and shot Rachel a self-conscious look before whispering an "I love you" before hanging up.

Knowing Santana would probably throw her out of the car if she brought it up, Rachel tactfully decided to remain silent.

"Hey, Berry?"

"Yes?"

Santana rubbed her neck and looked out the window. "I never thought I'd say this, but—I'm glad you're not zombie food right now."

Rachel smiled slightly at the backhanded compliment. "The feeling's mutual."

"It'd damn well better be fucking mutual. And don't you dare tell anyone what I said!" Santana threatened.

There was a companionable silence as Rachel ran over several zombies standing in the street. They were passing the park when Santana glanced out the window and frowned. "Hey, isn't that Puck?"

Noah Puckerman was in a tree, looking scared shitless as three zombies—two undead joggers and an old man—clawed at the trunk with insatiable hunger. He kicked away their grasping hands with his sneakers, but had no weapon to defend himself, and more zombies were bound to be attracted by the commotion.

Rachel looked at Santana. "Should we stop?"

Santana frowned. "For him?"

Rachel shrugged. "I'd feel bad if we left him there." She stopped the car and reached into the backseat to hand Santana the shotgun and a box of shells. "Here, take this."

Santana's jaw dropped. "Damn, Berry, where did you even get this?"

"My Daddy liked to hunt. Do you know how to use it?"

"Point and shoot. How hard can it be?"

Rachel nodded. The two girls exited the car, Rachel hefting the axe, Santana toting the shotgun.

Rachel came up behind one of the jogger zombies and swung the axe with as hard as she could. The blade broke open its skull with a nasty squelch. Santana aimed the gun and quickly put a bullet in the heads of the remaining two.

Rachel frowned as she braced her foot against the zombie's skull and tugged her axe free. "That was extremely loud. Every zombie in a two-block radius probably heard that."

"Let's get moving then." Santana reloaded the gun.

Rachel looked up to see Puck gaping down at them. "You can come down now, Noah."

"Yeah, Puck, quit being a pussy," Santana barked.

Puck dropped out of the tree and stared at them in awe. "That was so fucking badass."

"You can jizz your pants later, Puckerman," Santana said, already heading back towards the car. "We have to go save Brittany and Quinn. You can come too, I guess." Santana shot Rachel a questioning look. The diva sighed and nodded.

Puck trotted after their heels. "But seriously, that was hot. You cut that fucker's head open like a melon, Jewbabe—"

"Less talking, more walking, Noah," Rachel said sternly.

Puck shut up and looked at the Range Rover in approval. "I call shotgun!"

"Already did," Santana said smugly. She pointedly cradled the gun in her arms and put her feet up on the dashboard.

Rachel tossed the axe into the backseat and handed him the baseball bat. "Your masculine physique makes you more suited for blunt trauma, Noah."

Santana rolled her eyes at Puck's confused expression. "What Berry means is you've got nice arms, Puckerman, so use them."

"Sweet." Puck flexed his biceps and grinned. He could totally rock this shit; those zombies just caught him off guard before. Besides, bashing in brains wouldn't be any weirder than Rachel and Santana actually working together.

He leaned forward to look between Rachel and Santana. "So am I gonna be the only dude around here? 'Cause I can think of some fun we can do with that—"

"That is completely unnecessary, Noah—"

"Yeah, some fun like cutting off your balls—"

Puck grinned. Nope, his girls were still the same. Except—"Uh, why aren't we moving?"

"Seatbelt," Rachel and Santana chorused together.

Note to self: Don't write zombie fics while alone in the house at night. It gets creepy.

Also, the item on your left is your primary weapon in the impending zombie apocalypse. The item on your right is your secondary weapon. How do you fare?

I got my guitar and my aviators. Excellent, I can serenade the zombies to their [second] deaths with my horrible singing while looking awesome at the same time.