GREG
It was like something out of a movie.
The last bus pulled away, and you weren't on it. You felt like that kid in that asteroid movie, the one who got off the bus at the last second because he wouldn't die without his girlfriend. You never saw the end of that one. Maybe he died. Or maybe he found his girlfriend and they lived happily ever after in a changed world.
Your world is definitely changed, now. One parallel.
You got off the bus voluntarily. Two parallels.
You were probably the only person in the whole city not left behind against your will. You don't know if that's a parallel, but you guess that's where any and all similarities end.
Catherine and Lindsey never came. They were supposed to meet you there, on the edge of the westernmost suburb, with the other survivors. You know that they were supposed to be there because you had been in radio contact briefly. But then the busses with their shell shocked cargo had begun to leave, striking out into the desert, making for the California coast. Somewhere along the line, you had heard a rumor that they didn't like water.
That also reminds you of a movie you'd seen. You thought of that movie as you watched Doctor Robbins's anxious face, pressed against the back window of the commandeered school bus, mouthing things at you that you couldn't understand. He, his family, and David had all managed to get there before it was too late. You were all supposed to make one last spectacular getaway together, because if nothing else you knew each other. The sky was falling, but you wouldn't be with strangers. In the end, you gave your place to someone else. If Catherine was out there, god damn it, you would find her. One way or another.
You hadn't lingered there long, staring at the mountains that ringed the horizon. The sun was hurtling across the sky, leaving only six or seven hours until sunset; it was too dangerous to travel after dark. Too dangerous to travel period, maybe, but at least the daylight afforded a view of what was attacking you.
Later on you would shake your head and smile at the undeniable logic of it all. Head to the lab. The lab has guns. Loaded guns. The same thought you all had, and silently you would bless Bobby for always keeping the ballistics lab fully stocked and bragging to everyone about it.
Even if you weren't surprised to see the core of the night shift there, you were kind of shocked at the state they were in. You and Grissom seemed to be the only ones without serious injuries. You left Lindsey off that list, because while she wasn't bleeding, her mind seemed to have…fractured, somehow.
There was no way that Warrick was going to be able to save that eye, you think, looking at the wound carefully, as you attempt to clean it. Something had clawed him across the face, catching all the soft tissue with its talons. The left side of his face was a bloody, torn up mess. He turns his head slightly and you think that the other side of his head is as flawless as it ever was. His cocoa skin is warm under your hands as you wrap a clean bandage around his head, and you're thankful for that, if nothing else.
Catherine is worse. You don't know what happened to her, and you're almost afraid to ask. Pale strands of hair stick to the sweat coating her face, her eyes closed in concentration as she tries not to cry. You can't really assess the damage well, in the dim light of Grissom's office. You do know that her right leg is broken in several places, and her feet- you try not to look. You didn't throw up at your first autopsy, and you don't want to mar your perfect record now.
And of course there's Sara, lying on Grissom's couch. He sits on the floor next to her, his head level with hers, stroking her hair. You're not even sure if she's conscious, or not. She might even be dead. It's surreal, looking at her hands, usually full of movement, so uncompromisingly still. Her injuries are internal, and you know that it means the clock has begun ticking for her. You don't know when the gears will grind to a silent halt. Could be hours, minutes, days… you reach out to touch her hand. It moves slightly, and Grissom places his lips to her temple, holds them there for a long moment. Would Grissom will still run his fingers through her hair after she'd gone? You wonder if Lindsey wasn't the only one with a shattered mind, and reasoned out ways to hold everything together.
"We've got to get out of here," you hear yourself saying. They all look at you. No one raises an argument.
"The Denalis are still out back," Warrick says slowly, weighing the merits of staying holed up where they were. Your eyes glance around the room- you could move them, you think. Catherine. Sara. Very, very carefully.
"We should leave before dark," you continue. "Head for the coast. Find… a boat, maybe. Something."
Grissom surprises you by nodding in agreement. "It's better than dying here. We have a better chance, out there." The knuckles of the hand not resting on Sara's head are curled into a fist so tight that they shine white in the darkness- little moons, shining through dense clouds. Nothing could touch the moon. No one could shoot down the stars.
You take it as a good sign, and begin to gather up first aid supplies.