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As The Soil Settles Overhead

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Mercedes theorized that it was entirely possible that she was vividly hallucinating and the image of Puck standing in front of her with a baseball bat in his hand was nothing but a mirage, but at least he looked just as stunned at their meeting as she was. She couldn't remember the last time she saw him (probably around the time they graduated from McKinley — they had never been that close as friends, after all) and frankly, he looked so different she was surprised she could recognize him at all. He was sunburned and he hadn't shaved in days, and he'd let his old Mohawk disappear, allowing his entire head of hair to regrow evenly. Maybe it was just the stubble all over his jaw, but Mercedes thought he looked strangely older. If this was a hallucination, she was pretty sure her brain wouldn't have added the beard.

"What the hell were you hiding for?" Puck demanded.

"I thought you were going to shoot me!" Mercedes protested.

He made a face, glancing sidelong at his bat. "With what? I don't have a gun."

"Well, I didn't know that, did I?" she countered as Puck reached down to help her up. She winced as the blisters on her bare feet were stressed, then brushed a loose strand of frizzy hair away from her face. "Puck, what are you doing here? I thought you joined the Air Force."

Puck scratched at the back of his neck. "I did, but I had like a month before I actually had to start and the base was in California anyways, so I figured I'd spend my last days of freedom in the City of Angels," he said, shrugging. He let the tip of the bat clunk solidly against the floor, leaning on it like a cane.

Mercedes brushed the dust from the seat of her pants. "Well, it's not the city of anything anymore," she muttered.

"What are you doing all the way out here?"

"Trying to head home."

Puck's eyebrows shot up. "On foot? Seriously?"

"…Aren't you on foot?"

He shook his head. "No, I stole a horse."

Mercedes blinked. "You— what?"

A prideful grin spread across Puck's face. "Yeah, I found him in a stable in Pasadena," he said. "Some kind of rich-people farm for professional riders or whatever. Come on, I'll show you."

"Give me a second." Mercedes propped an arm against the counter as she pushed her aching toes back into her shoes.

Puck eyed the massive (and frankly disgusting) blisters on her feet with concern. "You okay?" he asked. "Those don't look so good."

"Well, it's either this or go barefoot," she replied dryly, wincing as she re-tied the laces. "Since when do you know how to ride a horse?"

"I used to take my sister to her riding lessons," Puck explained, carding his fingers through his hair (and man, it was going to take awhile for Mercedes to get used to how he looked with it). "I mean, I never actually rode with her – I just remember a lot of what her teacher said. I'm not great but the basics were easy enough to figure out."

"You never paid that much attention in high school," Mercedes joked as Puck led her outside.

Groaning as her eyes were suddenly forced to readjust to the cruelly bright sun, Mercedes followed Puck along the edge of the tiny parking lot and around the corner of the building, nearly laughing out loud when she saw the animal Puck had so proudly claimed as his own.

The horse was tied to a tree at the edge of the lot, a huge bay mare with a rich brown coat and a black tail swishing back and forth. It was obvious the mare had been well-groomed for the duration of her life, although her coat was dusty from the road, and the bridle and saddle that Puck had presumably stolen along with the creature herself were both polished. Puck had tied a rope to the handles of two large canvas bags filled with food and water and slung them across the horse's back, creating a set of makeshift saddle bags. What made Mercedes choke back a laugh, however, was the fact that her mane was tightly and ornately braided. Puck had stolen a dressage horse.

"My motorcycle doesn't work, so meet my new ride — Mr. T," Puck said, striding up to the mare and rubbing a palm over her nose. "He's got one horsepower."

Mercedes stared at Puck blankly. "You named your horse after Mr. T? Really?"

Puck cracked a smile as the horse gently butted him in the chest. "Yeah," he said. "Looks like him, doesn't it?"

"You do realize it's a mare, right?"

"Huh?"

"It's a mare," Mercedes repeated. "Female."

Puck's grin vanished abruptly. Mr. T snorted.

A week without power and Carole was fairly sure she was about to lose her mind, although she wasn't entirely certain whether her restlessness stemmed from apprehension of the world's current circumstances or just sheer boredom. Burt was spending most of his time trying to get the cars in the garage to turn on (he had made absolutely no progress, but Carole wasn't about to discourage him since at least he had something to do ) and she had been finding small, mostly pointless tasks around the house to occupy herself, like re-organizing their photo albums or alphabetizing the books on the shelves. She almost wished the hospital was a block away so that she could still go to work, but there was no way she could walk the thirty-five miles northeast to Findlay and back. And besides, she had no idea if the hospital was even operating at the moment.

She didn't even want to think what must have happened to the patients whose life support had suddenly vanished along with the power, or those who might have been in the middle of surgeries.

At the present moment, Carole was trying to keep her hands occupied by dusting all the surfaces in the living room with a rag — a menial task she normally detested, but at least it was something . When the power finally came back, the house was going to be cleaner than she'd ever had the energy to keep it before, she thought bitterly to herself. And dear God , she hoped the power would come back. She missed her showers, her stove, her car, her movies, her radio, her phone, and most importantly, her job. She was tired of being afraid to go into town because of what she would see. All the wreckage and debris wasn't part of a world she was familiar with.

So she cleaned, and fixed, and organized, and tidied, and kept herself busy, and she pretended everything was somewhat all right.

As Carole dusted the shelves by the now-useless TV (which still had Charade stuck in the DVD player), working her way around the picture frames and various other knickknacks, she paused on an old photo of herself and Finn at the beach. She let out a slow breath, gently picking up the photograph and cradling it in her fingers. It was nearly fifteen years old, and in it she was kneeling in the sand, hugging Finn in her lap with her hair — much longer and curlier back then — blowing in the wind. Finn was maybe five years old, in bright blue swim trunks and streaked with sunscreen, squinting in the sun and grinning. Carole felt a rock press into her throat.

"Honey?"

Carole flinched, looking over her shoulder to see Burt standing in the doorway from the kitchen. "Sorry, I didn't hear you come in," she said, her fingertips tightening slightly around the picture's frame. "Any luck with the cars?"

"Nope," he admitted with a shake of his head. There was a streak of oil on his forehead. "Pretty close to giving up, honestly. What're you looking at?" He came over to stand next to her.

Carole placed the photo back in its spot on the shelf, letting out another sigh. "I miss him," she said softly.

Burt wrapped an arm around her back, squeezing her shoulder in consolation. "Yeah, me too," he agreed, kissing the top of her head. "Listen, we're almost out of food. We need to go pick up some more stuff from downtown."

Carole's heart sank in her chest. "I'm not sure I want to go," she said. "Not again." Images of the bodies sprawled across the ground near the wrecked airplane, left to rot out in the open, flashed across her mind and made her shudder. She'd been an ER nurse for almost twenty years, but nothing could have possibly prepared her for that.

Burt pressed his mouth shut for a moment, then kissed her forehead again. "It's okay," he said. "I'll go."

"You know, I was thinking that I could go to St. Rita's tomorrow and see if there's anybody working there," Carole changed the subject. "They'll probably need an extra pair of hands."

Burt frowned. "I think the worst of the damage is done, Carole," he said.

She shrugged. "People are still going to get hurt or sick, and there should be somebody to help out when they do."

He nodded, pride flickering across his face. "Okay." He squeezed her shoulder one last time and turned to go back into the kitchen. "Well, I'm heading out. Is there anything in particular you know we need?"

"Just the essentials," she called after him.

"Water, ramen, and a working generator?"

"You got it."

She heard him chuckle in the kitchen. "All right, I'll be back in a couple hours."

"Be careful."

The sound of the door shutting behind him was loud in Carole's ears, and she swallowed, rubbing her hands over her arms as she abruptly felt a phantom chill. It was far too quiet now.

Running her fingers through her hair (she really did miss that shower), Carole shivered and circled around the couch to the staircase, the steps creaking harshly under her feet as she climbed to the second floor hallway. Normally she'd walk straight from the stairs to the end of the hall, where her and Burt's bedroom was, but this time she stopped at the first door on the left — Finn's room.

The pit of her stomach turned cold as she stepped inside. The room still smelled vaguely like Old Spice and grilled cheese, though it had mostly faded by now. The majority of Finn's things had been packed away, donated or thrown out, but Carole had never had the strength to get rid of everything. She'd kept all the furniture, most of the pictures on the walls and his books from school, his backpack still with jumbled and disorganized notebooks tossed inside. His bed was neatly made and untouched.

Forcing herself to swallow the boulder in her throat, Carole shivered and fought the goosebumps on her arms, pushing open the door to Finn's closet. A few boxes rested on the floor inside, mostly clothes that she hadn't been able to bring herself to dispose of. She knelt on the carpet, lifting the lid to the box labeled JACKETS & SWEATERS in Sharpie. The box's contents were neatly folded and stacked, except for the white and grey striped hoodie on top, which had been unfolded and refolded so many times it was now badly wrinkled.

Carole picked it up, shaking it out once before pulling it over her shoulders. Her arms were far too short for the sleeves, and the hem hung far past her hips, but she immediately felt warmer as she pulled it tighter around her chest. It had always been her favorite out of all the hoodies Finn owned (and he'd owned a lot , though she had no idea why he thought he needed more than one or two), and since his passing she'd worn it whenever she felt like the world was about to crash down around her again. It was baggy and too big and it made her feel safe, but she wasn't entirely sure why she only wore it when Burt wasn't at home.

Suddenly, the silence was shattered by a loud clatter from downstairs, and Carole nearly jumped out of her skin. Quickly shoving the box back into the closet, she strode out of the room and descended the stairs, mentally preparing herself in case someone was breaking into the house. She realized as she reached the living room, though, that the noise was not someone inside the house, but instead frantic knocking on the door from someone outside.

Her heart skipping, Carole tiptoed toward the kitchen, not sure if she wanted to open the door for whomever was standing on the other side and rattling it in its frame with their incessant knocking.

"Carole! Burt! Hello?! Is anybody home?!"

As soon as she recognized the voice, Carole stopped tiptoeing and rushed to the door, yanking it open. "Hiram!" she cried, ushering him inside. "Oh my God, are you all right?!"

Hiram was out of breath and sweaty and reeking, one lens of his glasses cracked and his clothes badly in need of a wash. There was dirt smudged on his face and a scabbed-over cut on his arm, the ripped sleeve stained brown with old blood. "Please tell me you've got water," he said.

"Yeah, of course." Carole sat him down on one of the chairs at the little kitchen table, and retrieved a water bottle from the refrigerator (it wasn't keeping anything cold, but it still functioned as a storage space). "What happened to you?!"

Hiram leaned back against the wall behind his chair, sucking down half the bottle's contents in just a few gulps. "I got stuck in Cleveland when the blackout happened," he said, placing his glasses on the table and rubbing a palm over his face. "I had to walk back."

Carole stared at him. "You… you walked? From Cleveland?"

He nodded, still out of breath. "I was going to just try to make it home in the next hour, but I felt like I was going to pass out and you guys were only a block away. I am too old to be doing this."

"Hiram, how long have you been walking?"

"Four days." He drew another long swig of water, wincing as he swallowed too much at once. "Where's Burt?"

"He went downtown to pick up supplies," Carole replied. She shook her head abruptly, as if coming to her senses. "I'm so sorry — are you hungry? Can I get you some food?" It was funny how even in the worst of times, traditional routines of hospitality still remained.

"If I could have just a snack — a granola bar, orange, I'm not picky," Hiram flapped a hand. "I'd be grateful."

"You sure you don't need more than that?" Carole asked skeptically, handing him two apples out of the nearly empty fruit bowl on the counter.

"It's enough to get me home," Hiram said, hungrily digging his teeth into one of them. The juice dribbled down his chin as he chewed noisily, barely stopping for breath.

Carole sat down in the chair opposite from him. "You know, Hiram, you're welcome to stay the night. You could get some rest before heading home."

Hiram shook his head, chewing thoughtfully. "That's alright; there's a few good hours of daylight left and I don't want to leave Leroy in the lurch for any longer than I already have," he declined politely. "It's not right that all three of us were separated."

Carole's stomach lurched for what felt like the thousandth time as anxiety about Kurt's conditions stabbed through her chest. "Have you heard anything from Rachel?" she asked, expecting nothing.

Hiram was silent, shaking his head.

Carole then became keenly aware of the wound in Hiram's arm, a wave of guilt washing over her since she — an Emergency Room nurse — hadn't asked to see it. As Hiram continued to eat his apple, she reached over and pulled his sleeve back where it had been torn. "What happened?"

A shadow passed over Hiram's face. "I got attacked by a group of guys outside Norwalk," he said darkly. "I think they wanted my wallet, but I'm not sure. They had knives."

"Oh my God," Carole breathed, holding Hiram's arm straight across the table so that she could study it more closely. "How did you get away?"

He didn't respond for a heavy, pregnant moment. "I'd rather not talk about it," he said at last.

As night rapidly swept in over the city and plunged them into darkness, Rachel yawned, pulling her sweater tighter around her torso and pressing herself deeper into the couch cushions in the hopes of warming her body up a few degrees. April had never been the warmest time of year in New York, and without the building's central heating the loft was stuck at a temperature several degrees below comfortable, especially at night. Rachel shivered and yanked a blanket off the arm of the couch, draping it over her legs and hissing in pain as her injured foot was jostled slightly.

"You okay?" Dani asked. She was curled up in the armchair on the other side of the coffee table, wrapped up in a blanket of her own and reading by the light of the kerosene lamp. She was the only one besides Rachel who was still awake.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Rachel waved her off, yawning again. It felt like it was midnight already, but the sun had vanished barely two hours ago and it couldn't be any later than eight-thirty.

"Why don't you go to bed?" Dani suggested.

"I'm fine," Rachel repeated, choosing not to explain that she hated lying in the dark all by herself. If she fell asleep here, at least she wouldn't be alone. Besides, with her inability to walk she'd been spending so much time on the couch that it was starting to feel like her bed anyways.

"Well," Dani said, sitting up and clapping her book shut. "I'm exhausted, so I will head to bed." She dropped the book onto the coffee table and stretched as she stood up.

"Can you leave the lamp?" Rachel requested.

Dani shrugged and bid her a good night, heading past Rachel and disappearing behind Santana's curtain.

Rachel sighed, watching the lamp's flame flicker inside the glass chimney, and wondered why she'd never found shadows so intimidating before. They scared her now — dancing and distending and twisting across the walls of the loft — and she felt like a child. The loft was much too large now, the walls too far apart and leaving too much room for her fears to sneak in and crowd the place.

It was almost laughable how hell-bent she'd been on coming to New York, and now it seemed like the city had swallowed her up like some beast that preyed on young girls and their dreams of stardom. She never thought she'd say this in a million years, but after this past week she'd decided that New York was her least favorite place in the world. She missed her dads and her house and her suffocatingly familiar town, and she ached for the safety of her childhood bedroom and her insignificance. She'd come to New York to be someone noteworthy, and the rug had been ripped out from under her feet, throwing her into the shadowed pit with everyone else in the godforsaken city. Being stuck on the couch, unable to walk without crutches and even less able to contribute by going out to scavenge for provisions, had shattered her importance.

Their plan to take Rachel to the hospital had quickly been abandoned days ago — Kurt and Santana had passed by the closest one during a supply run and had found it overwhelmed, crammed wall-to-wall with more severely injured patients and not nearly enough staff. The generators for the hospital weren't working, either, so the entire place was running purely by sunlight. No light, no hot water, no incoming medical supplies. Rachel was certain there was no point in going. She'd be low on the list of priorities, and had a feeling that she might be just as likely to walk away with a nasty infection as a healed foot.

Rachel shook her head, forcing her thoughts to subside for the time being, and reached over to grab Dani's book from the table. She wasn't tired, and her lack of fatigue combined with her over-abundance of boredom made her much more interested in literature than she'd ever been before. They didn't have many books around the apartment, but the few books they did have at least provided entertainment — even The Coffee Table Book Of Coffee Tables, which Burt had given to Kurt while under the mistaken impression that Kurt actually liked Seinfeld.

Dani's book was well worn and the spine had been bent backwards so many times that it didn't stay closed on its own, and it was difficult to make out the title in the dim light of the lamp, but Rachel was able to squint and read the two words printed in large font on the cover: Cat's Cradle.

She quickly put the book back on the table, feeling sick.

There was a rustling from behind her, and Rachel turned her head to see Santana's silhouette brush past her curtain and walk slowly through the kitchen. Rachel frowned, worry tugging at the back of her mind. Santana pulled the window to the fire escape open and bent to slide through, disappearing out onto the landing.

Rachel swallowed, not sure if she should see if Santana was okay. She and Kurt had returned an hour before sunset, shaking and terrified with nothing in their backpacks. Kurt had managed to explain that there were animals on the loose from the zoo, but Santana had been eerily quiet all evening, mostly staying behind her curtain and avoiding conversation. Being attacked by a pack of hyenas would have traumatized anyone, but Santana seemed like she'd lapsed into shock.

Screw it.

Rachel snatched her crutches from where they rested against the arm of the couch and heaved herself up, hobbling away from the lamp and the warm light it provided. Limping through the kitchen, she leaned down to squint through the window, barely able to see anything outside.

"Santana?" she called softly, and saw the vague shadow of Santana's head turn. She was sitting on the stairs leading up to the roof. "Are you okay?"

Rachel heard a sniff. "I didn't know you were still up," Santana replied, her voice thick.

Rachel decided not to comment that the lamp still being lit was more than noticeable, and instead leaned her crutches against the wall next to the window. Balancing on her good foot and the toes of the other, she carefully wormed her way through the window and stepped out onto the fire escape, immediately feeling a shiver shoot up her spine as her bare feet met the cold air. Once she was on the landing outside, she gripped the railing and sank down to sit next to Santana, blinking repeatedly as she tried to force her eyes to adjust to the dark.

"What's wrong?"

Santana sniffed again, swiping at her eyes with the heel of her hand. "I just… I don't know what we're supposed to do," she confessed.

Rachel's heart twisted in her chest, and she wrapped one arm around Santana's shoulders, hugging her tightly from the side and fully expecting Santana to push her off. To Rachel's surprise, however, Santana instead leaned into the embrace, using Rachel's shoulder for support. Rachel could feel Santana's body shuddering and she wished she could give some advice, but even if Rachel had always thought herself to be smarter than most of her friends, Santana had always been wiser. Rachel had nothing to offer.

Rather than try to give some clichéd pep talk that she knew would sound completely hokey and not at all honest, Rachel instead reached with her other arm to complete the hug, clasping her hands around Santana's shoulder. Santana collapsed against her, silently crying in a way Rachel had never seen before. This wasn't Santana being upset over yet another relationship falling apart, or whimpering to manipulate a teacher into giving her a higher grade. This was grief, pure and simple.

"I miss my mom," Santana choked.

"I miss my dads," Rachel agreed softly, tightening her arms around Santana's frame. She ran a hand over Santana's hair, not knowing what else to say.

Before she could even try to come up with some other words of sympathy or comfort, however, the earsplitting noise of a gunshot cracking harshly through the air made the two of them jerk upright, pulling apart. Rachel gripped Santana's hand tightly, her eyes wide in the dark. Santana had gone rigid, and Rachel felt Santana's skin run cold. The shot couldn't have been more than a block away.

A second later, a woman screamed somewhere out in the darkness, and another two shots rang out, cutting the scream off abruptly. Santana flinched, her breath shuddering out of her lungs.

Rachel tried to fight back a sudden wave of tears, but failed and instead gritted her teeth to keep a sob from escaping her mouth.

"Kurt was right," Santana whispered, her voice trembling. "We can't stay here."