..
The Booming Ground
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Rachel was floating somewhere in a fog, alone. There was a distantly painful throbbing in her leg, and every time she tried to move her toes it sent a dull twinge up through her bones to her brain. She could barely feel the ground underneath her, and the only thing she could hear was the deafening chatter of her teeth.
Why was she so cold?
With shaking hands, she pulled her blanket tighter around her shoulders, struggling to pull her legs closer to her body. She thought for a moment that maybe she could hear someone saying her name, but her limbs were so heavy and she just wanted to sleep. Lying on her stomach was somehow the only way her head wouldn't feel like it was going to burst.
Her shoulder was suddenly grabbed and shaken, forcing her to open her eyes.
"Rachel," said a voice from overhead. Was it Dani? Or Santana? Why did it sound so far away? Why was everything muffled? Why was it so hard to think? "Rachel, you need to eat something. Sit up. Come on."
Rachel shook her head, her chest tight. Chills coursed over her like ripples on a pond, gooseflesh stretching her skin until she wanted to just peel it from her body to release the pressure. Her head was pounding and she was constantly teetering between wanting to vomit and feeling so hungry that her stomach hurt. But she'd tried to eat earlier and every time the food touched her tongue, she couldn't swallow and the nausea came crashing back in.
"Rachel, please," the voice begged. The hand was still on Rachel's shoulder.
God, she was too hot now. Rachel wearily pushed the blankets from her legs and tried to roll over, feeling the sweat that had pooled on her back drip down her sides. She shuddered and gagged as her stomach seized, sending sharp stabs up her throat.
Her mouth was dry. She reached blindly for the water bottle she was sure she'd left beside her, but instead her hand found only grass.
Where was she?
She could remember being indoors last. And pain — horrible, gut-wrenching agony shooting up her leg through her spine to her fingers and lungs and brain. She could remember that.
"Rachel, please eat something," the voice repeated, only it had changed now, morphed into a sound more familiar and clear. A voice she knew and trusted and deeply missed.
"Dad?" she tried to say. Instead, the word emerged from her chest in a whimper, barely intelligible. She needed to work on her enunciation. She was an actress, after all, and her audience needed to know what she was saying.
She could hear muted applause in the distance, though — a commotion of whispers and rustles and snaps that was barely audible but there nonetheless. Or was it the wind in the branches overhead?
The roaring of the blood in her ears grew louder and drowned it out before she could decide.
There was a hand on her forehead suddenly, making her flinch and pull away. The hand was burning hot to the touch and she was afraid that if it touched her again, she'd go up in flames.
"I've never seen a fever this bad," said the voice. Her dad's tone had disappeared — had he even been here to begin with? — and she wanted to cry. "Her heart's going to give out if we don't do something."
Her heart.
Her heart felt fine. It was her head that wouldn't stop pounding, her stomach that had twisted into knots, her bones that were about to snap with any slight movement, her skin that she wanted to claw from her flesh.
If she could sleep, this would all be fixed. She just needed sleep.
The cold came rushing back into her body, making her bones tremble. She fumbled for the blankets again, but felt another pair of hands lift them over her shoulders, tucking them in around her.
"Rachel, I made you some soup. It's the last can, I'm sorry."
Something hot and steaming was held near her face, and Rachel caught a whiff of chicken broth. Immediately, her gut heaved and she retched, acid burning in her esophagus since there was nothing in her stomach for her to throw up.
"No, no," she groaned, dry-heaving a second time, and then again. Her lips felt numb. How would she be able to sing like this, shivering and almost numb and with her throat burning? Would this last forever?
"Rachel, you have to eat," the voice pleaded.
Tears squeezed from the corners of her eyes — she couldn't do this! A sob escaped her throat, and she felt ashamed. She was more professional than this, surely? But she was so tired and everything hurt.
Stars danced on the backs of her eyelids.
DAY 18
Breakfast at the Andersons' was newly cheerful, for once absent of worry and carefully rationing who ate what and how much of it. Blaine and Artie had returned yesterday weighted down with bags of cereal, condensed milk, oatmeal, packaged ham and salami, dried apricots and banana chips, instant coffee, and even powdered mix for hot chocolate. The five of them sat gathered at the dining table, eating and talking and actually enjoying themselves for the first time in what seemed like years. Even Tim, whom Artie had never once seen smile, laughed at a joke Artie made through his mouthful of Choco-Crunch.
Pamela smiled as she poured hot tea into Tim's mug, giving him a quick peck on the cheek and squeezing his shoulder before returning the kettle to the counter. The image of a loving wife and husband was more than familiar to Artie, and despite the fact that yes, he felt truly safe at last, he couldn't help but feel an aching pang in his chest. He hadn't spoken to his parents or older brother since days before the blackout. And as much as this particular morning felt like he was part of a family again, Artie was reminded that it was only himself and Caitlin left.
For the duration of the meal, Caitlin stayed close to Artie's side. She was the only person in the room who hadn't joined the conversation, instead quietly and slowly eating a plateful of dried orange slices and a cup of cocoa. Artie hated to admit it, but he had gotten used to her not speaking, and it took him longer than it should have to notice that she was halfheartedly pushing her food around on her plate more than she was actually chewing and swallowing.
Artie reached over and patted her back, then brushed Caitlin's bangs back from her forehead. They were growing too long; he made a mental note to find some scissors later and give her a trim. His mom would've known how to do it properly, and how to tie her hair back so that it would keep out of her face and still be pretty. But Artie spent a lot of his brainpower these days trying not to think about all the things his parents weren't here to do.
He wished Caitlin would start talking again. For the first few days after the blackout, it had been okay. Artie had been in the middle of making macaroni and cheese for dinner, and it was scary, of course, but they were all right. They'd pretended it was like camping — both of them staying in Artie's room and keeping candles lit and playing board games late into the night. They hadn't realized the world had changed so much outside, and instead they were just waiting for the phone lines to turn back on so they could call their parents.
And then, everything was gone. Just after sunset, nearly a week after the clocks had stopped, there was a pounding on the front door. Then the windows were smashed, and then the door broken down. Artie and Caitlin were dragged from the house and tossed onto the front lawn, Artie thrown from his chair and knocked out. He could remember Caitlin screaming and clutching his neck, but nothing else until he came around to find their home eviscerated. Caitlin hadn't spoken since that night.
He leaned over and kissed the top of Caitlin's head. For now, the fact that she was safe and not starving would have to be enough. Things were finally starting to look up.
Santana's frown deepened as she held the back of her hand to Rachel's forehead for the umpteenth time that day. Rachel had been sweating nonstop and was dangerously dehydrated — her lips were cracked and beginning to peel, and her cheeks were hollowed and greyish. The skins under her eyes had deepened to a dark purple. She couldn't stop shivering, and she periodically mumbled incoherent phrases through her delirium.
"How's she doing?" Dani asked, throwing another log on the fire. She was boiling their last packet of ramen in the little pot that had come with the camping stove, which had run out of gas four days ago. They were camped barely a mile from Stewartsville, having tried and failed to keep walking for very long while carrying Rachel.
Santana shook her head, clicking her tongue against her teeth. "Worse."
Dani chewed the inside of her lip. "I'm sure Kurt will find something helpful," she said, glancing upwards at the tree branches. "I'm going to go down to the stream and get some more water."
Santana waved her off. "I'll go. You stay with her."
Dani shrugged, moving to sit cross-legged next to Rachel. "What do you want me to do if she wakes up?"
Santana brushed off the seat of her pants. "Last time she woke up, she started crying because she got a bad review for her performance of Hello, Dolly," she said dryly. "My advice, just go with it."
Grabbing a few empty bottles from the side of the fire where they'd been piling up, Santana made her way down the slope about twenty yards behind their campsite. The ground was soft from layers upon layers of decaying leaves, and Santana's sneakers sunk into the soil slightly with every step. She had to clutch the bottles in the crook of her arm, using her free hand to hold onto the branches of smaller trees and saplings to keep from slipping.
It took her a few minutes to reach the bottom of the incline, where a small stream meandered through a narrow bed of branches, boulders, and pebbles, barely ten feet across. It bubbled and dipped through the rill, formed by years of erosion beneath the constant current. Santana crouched by the stream's edge, balancing on the balls of her feet and splashing a palmful of cold water onto her face and the back of her neck. She shivered, a shudder running down her spine. Even in the warmth of the mid-May afternoon, the stream was icy cold.
She glanced over her shoulder, up the slope towards the campsite. Dani and Rachel were out of view, blocked by the hill and the shady trees, but Santana knew they were close by. It was strange how comforting that thought was nowadays — just being near familiar people. Kurt had left on his own, heading back to Stewartsville to give the town a thorough search for supplies. It was the first time one of them had been separate from the group since leaving New York, and despite Santana knowing that Stewartsville was only a mile away and empty, she was still anxious for him. Still, she knew the importance of getting Rachel medication, and now that Rachel was completely unable to travel, their options were very, very limited.
Santana sighed, resting her elbows on her knees and studying the woods on the other side of the stream. It was quiet, but not silent. She could hear insects buzzing and see them zigzagging through the beams of sunlight bursting through the thin canopy, small birds chirping and flitting to and fro. Around the trunk of an old oak tree, two squirrels chattered and chased each other.
It was pretty here, she supposed. She had never been one to marvel at natural beauty — she had always preferred high-rises and the bustling flow of traffic and flashing neon signs — but she could see why a person might find a place like this soothing. Personally, she didn't like it much.
She reached forward and dipped her water bottle into the stream, letting it fill before sealing the cap and reaching for another bottle. The water here was clear and free of silt, with nothing harmful to worry about. Bitterly, she knew that if they had stayed in New York, they would have eventually been forced to boil water from the Hudson to drink — and even that would have been disgusting.
God, she missed the city. She missed the noise and the rush and the smells and the people.
A twig snapped somewhere to her left, and Santana nearly dropped the bottle in the water. Her gaze jerked up, her leg muscles tightening and immediately ready to bolt.
A deer had emerged from the brush on the opposite side of the stream, tiptoeing to the water to drink. Santana released a small, startled gasp, and the deer raised its head. Santana had never seen a deer in person, and couldn't help but gawk at it. It was smaller than she'd always imagined deer to be, with thin but sharp antlers protruding from its head, curling outwards and up over its ears. The buck remained frozen where it stood, staring back at her with its ears pointed forward, its nostrils flaring as it sniffed the air. Its tail flicked back and forth, flashing white.
Santana teetered on her toes, still crouched but trying her best not to move. She wasn't sure why she was so reluctant to scare the buck off — it wasn't like she had any sort of fondness for wildlife — but somehow she wanted this moment to last as long as possible. It was peaceful, and for once the peace didn't frighten the hell out of her.
The buck stood there unmoving for a long time, gazing unreservedly back at her. Santana wasn't sure how many minutes ticked by (Dani was the one with the watch, after all) before she couldn't keep her legs so rigidly bent any longer, and she had to stand up. The buck remained standing, only its ears moving as they swiveled back and forth on its head. It released a heavy puff of air through its nose, still watching her.
Then, there was a sudden shout in the distance, and the buck turned and fled, its hooves thumping solidly against the ground. Santana's stomach dropped, and she quickly gathered up the bottles in her arms before casting one last look toward where the deer had vanished. She then ran up the slope back to camp.
"What's going on?" she called, rushing back to Dani and letting the bottles fall on the ground beside the fire. Rachel was still unconscious, but Dani had stood and was watching the road several hundred yards away. The shout came again, and Santana turned to follow Dani's gaze.
Kurt was running towards them in a full sprint.
Santana's heart plummeted, every muscle in her body tensing. The last time Kurt had run that fast, hyenas had been snapping at their heels. Dani grabbed Santana's wrist, just as terrified of what might be coming.
"SANTANA! DANI!" he screamed, his shoes pounding the pavement.
"What's wrong?!" Dani shouted.
At last, Kurt skidded to a stop at the campsite, sweaty and dusty and badly out of breath. And… smiling?
"Nothing's wrong!" he panted, shrugging off his backpack and yanking the zipper open. He pulled out a pair of orange pill bottles and tossed them to Santana. "I found these!"
Santana squinted at the labels, bearing only long words she didn't recognize. "What is this?"
"It's penicillin," Kurt said, dropping to the ground in exhaustion. He seized a water bottle from Santana's pile, holding it to his neck to cool his skin. "It's for Rachel."
"Oh my God," Dani breathed, a smile growing on her face. "Kurt, you—"
"I found them and ran back as fast as I could."
Dani laughed, sinking to her knees to wrap Kurt in a hug. "I think you just saved Rachel's life."
After lunch, Blaine and Artie made a second run to the Target truck. Since the truck's cargo was too massive for them to bring home all at once, they had locked the trailer and kept the keys. It would be their secret reserve, and they planned to gradually move it all, load by load, back to the Andersons' house. They could store most of it in the cellar, and there were a few extra rooms upstairs that could easily be repurposed. Blaine tried not to think about how one of those rooms had belonged to Cooper not too long ago.
The walk to Yoakam Road felt shorter and less dangerous today. Even just knowing that food was suddenly something they didn't have to worry about had lifted an indescribable weight from their shoulders. Thick rain clouds rolled across the sky overhead, providing cool shade and promises of fresh drinking water.
"We should stop by that gardening center on the other side of town during our run tomorrow," Artie said, his wheels crunching slightly on the pavement. "I overheard your mom talking about starting to grow vegetables in the backyard."
Blaine nodded. "That'd be good," he said tightly.
Artie looked at him askance. "Are you okay?"
Blaine sighed, hooking his thumbs through the straps of his backpack. "Are we so certain the power won't come back?" he asked. "I mean, do you really think we need to resort to growing our own crops just so we don't starve?"
Artie's brows furrowed over the rims of his glasses. "You're asking me that question while we're walking three miles just to raid an abandoned truck for food," he said flatly. "So we don't starve."
Blaine's stomach twisted. "Fair point," he admitted.
"For all we know, the power could come back tomorrow, but I don't think it's safe to bet on that," Artie added.
"I get it."
"Okay." Artie backed off, falling silent.
Blaine knew he shouldn't be complaining. After all — they did have the truck. They had enough food to last them for months. His parents were alive. Their house was secure, not looted or burned down like so many others. None of them were sick or injured and in need of a hospital. All in all, things were good. Things should be good.
But on the same token, he couldn't shake the feeling that things would never be the same again. He always avoided looking out the back window to where Cooper was buried, and his mother and father barely mentioned Cooper's death, if at all. Hell, he had no idea what had happened to Artie's parents; he'd never asked. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.
"Whoa," Artie said, slowing his chair to a stop. He was staring off to the shoulder of the road.
"What?" Blaine stopped as well, following Artie's gaze. There was an abandoned station wagon sitting diagonally with two wheels on the grass, and the decomposing corpse of a man lying crumpled in front of it, his limbs askew. Blood, old and dried, was sprayed across the car door behind him. He'd been shot three times in the chest, no doubt killed for any food or other valuables he might have been carrying.
Blaine frowned, not sure what Artie was reacting to. He had passed this spot nearly every day on his supply runs — the man had been killed weeks ago and his body wasn't anything new. In general, seeing bodies on the side of the road wasn't new. No one had the courage or the resources to collect them.
But Artie looked like he was on the verge of tears. "Is… isn't that Mr. Schue?" he choked out.
Blaine's eyes widened, his attention whipping back to the corpse. Artie was right. Blaine had passed this exact spot almost every day, seen the body every time, and never once realized it was someone he knew.
He took a deep breath, his chest tightening, and turned away. "We need to keep going."
Artie didn't move. "But… shouldn't we—?"
"There's nothing we can do," Blaine said, already continuing down the road. Finally, Artie grabbed the rims of his wheels and rolled to catch up. Neither of them spoke again, and Blaine wasn't sure if the silence was out of respect for the dead, or because there simply wasn't anything left to say.
A warm breeze blew across the road, tugging at Kurt's hair as he examined Rachel's foot. The shadows were growing long in the afternoon light; it had been several hours since they'd coaxed Rachel to swallow a handful of the pills. Kurt was being impatient, he knew, but he just wanted to see some improvement.
"How's it looking?" asked Dani.
"No better," Kurt replied, letting Rachel's leg back down to rest on the makeshift pillow he'd made of her balled-up sweatshirt. "No worse, though."
"You saved her life, you know."
Kurt smiled, tugging the corner of Rachel's blanket back over her foot. "Well, we're not out of the woods yet," he said, looking upwards at the leafy canopy. "Literally."
Dani chuckled. "You're making puns now?"
"Hey, we've got limited sources of entertainment now. We should probably get our laughs where we can."
"True." Dani stood up, brushing off the seat of her pants and scouting the woods in the direction of the stream. "I'm going to go see if I can find anything edible."
"Santana already went back into town," Kurt said. "There were some places that looked like they hadn't been cleared out yet."
"Well, I'm tired of eating nothing but canned crap," Dani countered. "I want something fresh."
Kurt blinked in confusion, realizing that she wasn't talking about following Santana back to Stewartsville. "What, you're just going to forage for berries or something?"
Dani shrugged, checking her watch. "If I find some." She laughed, seeing Kurt's incredulous expression. "Look, I grew up in an uber-conservative family in Tennessee. My dad and I went hunting a lot when I was growing up — it's not like I can survive with nothing but a knife in my pocket, but I do know a few things."
"All right," Kurt acquiesced. "Just don't bring back anything poisonous."
Dani squinted up at the sun poking through the leaves, then again at her watch. "It's about four o'clock now," she said. "I'll be back in a couple of hours." She waved to Kurt over her shoulder and headed for the stream, disappearing down the slope.
Kurt tossed a few more sticks onto the fire, tucking the blankets more closely to Rachel's sides. Rachel's forehead was still beaded with sweat, but at least her teeth were only chattering intermittently now, and her delirious mumblings had grown rare. He brushed her bangs away from her forehead and out of her eyes, then self-consciously tugged at his own hair. It had been so long since any of them had had a proper haircut or even looked in a mirror, and Kurt knew he probably looked like someone out of a post-apocalyptic movie.
"What I wouldn't give for a spa day…" he sighed to himself, picking a small chunk of dirt from under his fingernail. His cuticles were in atrocious condition. He made a mental note to search for some nail clippers in the next Rite Aid they passed.
"Kurt?" came a small voice.
Kurt immediately moved to sit on his knees, his hand on Rachel's shoulder. Relief washed over him. "Hey, sweetie. How are you feeling?"
Rachel's eyes were bleary and only half open. "I had a dream about Finn," she said softly.
There was an aching pang that shot through Kurt's chest, but he forced a smile, carding his hands soothingly over Rachel's hair. "Yeah?" he prompted. "What was he doing?"
Rachel's eyes closed again, and for a moment Kurt thought she'd fallen back asleep. "We were just talking," she said.
"What about?" Kurt prompted.
Rachel let out a long, slow breath. "I'm tired," she mumbled.
"You can sleep if you want."
"I've been sleeping too much."
"Does your foot hurt?"
"No."
Kurt smiled. "That's good, sweetie. You'll be okay, I promise."
If Rachel thought this was good news, she didn't show it. Kurt couldn't tell if she'd slipped back into unconsciousness or if she was simply too exhausted to keep her eyes open.
"You still awake?"
"Mm-hmm."
"You know, we're only a couple miles from Pennsylvania," he said. "If we leave tomorrow morning, we'd probably get there before sunset. And then after that, we're practically home. You'll get to see your dads."
A blue jay cried in the branches somewhere.
"I bet they're waiting for you on the front step."
Again, Rachel didn't respond. Kurt watched the blue jay swoop from one tree to another, crying a second time. A bluebottle buzzed past his ear. Santana would be back soon, and Kurt found that he was hoping she wouldn't return for a while yet. He missed having days with only Rachel, to go for joint massages or to catch dinner and a movie. It was nice here with just the two of them, even if Rachel was sick and they were miles from anywhere they considered home.
"You still awake?" he repeated.
Rachel didn't reply, her shoulder rising and falling with each shallow breath. The blue jay cried again in the distance.
DAY 19
By the time the midnight moon peeked over the ridge of the distant rocky hills in the east, Puck's arm had swollen to twice its normal size. His breath was coming in ragged gasps as he clung to Mr. T's mane in a desperate effort to keep from falling off of her back. His left arm had been rendered useless — he wasn't able to move his fingers without crying out in pain — and Mercedes had been forced to fashion a makeshift sling out of one of her tank tops. He rode in the saddle with his head hung over Mr. T's neck, dried up and nearly passing out. He'd vomited too many times already and every time she tried to get him to sip a bottle of Gatorade, he couldn't keep it down. Even if the venom in his blood didn't kill him, Mercedes knew that before long, the dehydration would.
Mercedes walked ahead, guiding Mr. T by her reins and praying to the high heavens that they'd get out of the desert before Puck died from sheer agony. She was trying to move as fast as possible, but she couldn't risk making Puck lose his grip. He'd fallen once earlier and it was a hellish struggle to get him back in the saddle.
"Come on, Puck," she said for the thousandth time that night. "We're almost there."
"Stop saying that," Puck slurred through gritted teeth.
"No."
As the half moon climbed higher in the sky, spilling milky light across the sand flats and the road ahead, Mercedes kept her eyes wide and alert. She searched for signs, for tourist markers, anything that might indicate the presence of other people. But there was nothing. For all she knew, they were on the wrong highway and instead were heading south through Arizona to the Mexican border.
We're almost there, she told herself, refusing to believe she could have read the map so badly.
"Mercedes," Puck said, his chest heaving. "I — I can't keep doing this."
"Just hold on a little longer," she urged. "We'll get there soon."
"No, you're not — you're not listening."
"Puck," Mercedes warned. "Don't say anything."
"J-just cut it off, Mercedes, please," he cried, reaching down with his good arm to snatch the reins.
Mercedes' stomach flipped over. "Puck, I am not going to cut off your arm!"
"Mercedes—"
"No," she stopped him from saying any more. "No. You would bleed out. And I won't do that to you." She shook her head, yanking the reins out of his hand. "I won't."
"I'm going to die anyway!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "Please, this hurts—"
"I said no! You're delirious, and you're not thinking. So no."
Mercedes clenched her jaw, tugging on Mr. T's reins to keep her moving. She refused to look at Puck, despite his continued pleading. She refused to listen.
And then, she saw it.
Barely twenty feet ahead, a smaller road bent off of the main pavement, nothing but dirt but well-packed by tire treads. Overhead was a wooden arch, the paint peeling from the sign atop the gate.
RING OF FIRE CATTLE RANCH, it read, and Mercedes was sure she'd never read anything so welcome.
"Oh, thank God," she exhaled, leading Mr. T off the pavement and onto the dirt road. They passed under the gate, leaving its long moon shadow in their wake. Mr. T's hooves thudded dully in the sand, muting their steps.
They had barely walked another hundred feet into the dark, following the tire tracks as best they could in the moonlight, when Puck fainted. His fingers let go of Mr. T's mane, and he slid from the saddle, landing in the sand with a heavy thump. There was an audible crack as his head hit a rock embedded in the dirt.
"Puck!" Mercedes shrieked, whirling to grab Puck's shoulders and shake him. Mr. T sidestepped, snorting and whinnying in distress. "Puck, come on!"
Puck didn't move, though thankfully he was still breathing. Mercedes heaved him up off the ground, but he was so heavy that she ended up on her rear end with him sprawled across her lap. She wouldn't be able to move him on her own, and she couldn't just have Mr. T drag him on the ground.
So she did the only thing she could think of, and she screamed for help.
Maybe someone would hear her, maybe God would, maybe nobody at all was listening. At this point, she didn't even care who might respond — just so long as someone did.
She screamed and screamed until her throat went dry, until it felt like she would start coughing up blood any moment.
And at last, she spotted a pinprick of orange light floating in the distance, bobbing like a cork in water as it drew nearer from a hundred yards down the road.
Then — oh God, and then — a sound came echoing out of the darkness, and Mercedes felt tears of ineffable relief spill down her cheeks without warning.
"Hello, is anyone out there?!"
Mercedes clutched Puck's shoulders with one arm, waving her free hand desperately as high as she could reach. "We're over here!" she called, her voice hoarse and burning in her throat. "We're over here!"
The orange light bounced up and down as whoever held it broke into a run, their footsteps crunching on the gravel closer and closer until the orange light grew into a flame. It was a makeshift torch.
And lit up by the torch's light was the face of a man — dark skinned, long-nosed and wearing a Stetson on top of his head. Mercedes only cried harder.
"Whoa, whoa, now," the stranger said, dropping to one knee. He held the torch aloft to better see her. "What happened?"
In the torchlight, Mercedes saw that Puck's head bore a heavily bleeding cut above his right ear where it had struck the rock. She sniffed, hiccoughing as she pressed her hand to the cut, trying to stem the bleeding. "He — he got bit," she stammered.
"Rattlesnake?"
She shook her head, wiping the tears from her cheek on her shoulder. "N-no, it was a — a Gila," she sobbed. She didn't even know why she was crying anymore.
The man glanced at Puck's swollen arm, then patted her shoulder. "Sweetheart, you don't got nothing to worry about," he said. "Let's get him back to the house. You both'll be just fine."
Kurt woke with a start, although he had no idea what had raised him so suddenly. The night was quiet and still, with only a cricket chirping somewhere in the brush nearby, and his internal clock told him it was the early hours of the morning. Dawn was still a long way off; the moon had set and left only the stars behind, and not even a light breeze shifted the humid air. He couldn't hear Rachel's teeth chattering in fever now, but at least she was finally getting some proper sleep. It was just… calm.
The fire was long dead, but Kurt, his eyes wide in the darkness, could barely make out Santana's shadowed silhouette as she rolled over closer to Dani, sighed in her sleep, and settled again. Kurt lay awake for a short while longer, watching the stars twinkle faintly overhead and listening for anything that might be amiss out in the dark. But the night was silent, and hearing nothing, he eventually dozed, feeling as still and calm as the surrounding air. As he drifted off, he heard the solitary cricket chirp one final time, sounding far away, and then he fell into a deep, restful sleep.
In the morning, Kurt woke again with the dawn and sat quietly savoring his last Clif bar as he waited for the girls to get up. The sunrise was peaceful and rose-colored, the pinkish-yellow sky tossing a soft net of dappled light over the grass and trees lining the road. The breeze gradually picked up, rustling the leaves as small birds — sparrows and chickadees — twittered and flitted back and forth between the branches. A light mist rose from the grass and nearby ferns as the ground warmed beneath them. Kurt wasn't sure what the exact calendar date was any longer, but he was vaguely aware that it was now mid-May. All man-made measurements of time — months, hours, minutes, even seconds — seemed to have vanished, sucked into the intangible ether along with the electricity. Now, for the four of them, the only time marker they had was Dani's watch, and Kurt wasn't entirely unaware of the fact that he was asking her for the time less and less often. Knowing the exact minute of the day had slowly become all but obsolete, and Kurt was free to enjoy the morning for what it was — a single, slow, rose-colored moment.
Just as the sun was beginning to poke through the tree trunks to the east, Santana yawned and sat upright, tugging her hair out of its loose bun to re-tie it. Her movement woke Dani, who then stood and stretched, her vertebrae popping loudly as she reached for the treetops.
"I miss my bed," she stated sleepily.
Kurt stood as well, brushing dirt and small pieces of dead leaves from the seat of his pants. "I'm going to head down to the stream to fill our water bottles," he said, collecting as many Gatorade bottles as he could carry from their packs.
"I'll go with you," Santana volunteered, and the two of them carefully navigated the loamy slope down to the little brook below their campsite. Even if it was only a few yards away, Kurt was glad for the company.
"Do you really think Rachel's ready to travel?" Santana asked as they descended the hill. "I mean, we only found those meds yesterday. She's still pretty sick."
Kurt held onto the trunk of a birch tree to prevent himself from slipping in the loose soil. "Well, she seemed okay yesterday," he said. "She's obviously not going to be all better for a couple more days, but we have the meds now, and she told me her foot didn't hurt anymore."
"Yeah, when she was lying down," Santana retorted.
"Look, we're letting Rachel set the pace, and we won't push her any further than necessary," Kurt insisted as they finally reached the foot of the slope. "But we can't just sit here for days and wait until she's doing backflips."
Santana huffed, but acquiesced. "I guess."
Before filling their bottles, Kurt and Santana knelt by the stream and splashed water on their faces, rubbing it onto their forearms to wear away the layer that had built up of travel grime and sweat.
"Jesus, that's cold." Santana gave her head a shake. "Well, I'm awake now."
Kurt chuckled, shivering slightly. Despite being just as cold as Santana, he thought the cool splashes felt pleasant. Bathing — regardless of location or method — gave a semblance of routine. Not that they could maintain much of a routine in their current circumstances, but even just splashing his face with water from the stream made Kurt feel a little more human.
After he and Santana had finished their task of retrieving water for the group, they climbed back up the short slope to where Dani was repacking her things. Rachel was still curled up underneath her blankets.
"She's still not up?" asked Santana.
"Oh, leave her alone," Dani said, stuffing her own blanket into her pack. "She's been having a rough go of it. Let her sleep a little longer."
"How much is a little?" Santana muttered to Kurt through the corner of the mouth.
As Rachel continued to sleep, the three of them quickly broke down camp. After what felt like endless nights on the road, they had become remarkably efficient in the various chores necessary for lengthy trips on foot, the setting up and breaking down of a campsite being an integral part of those chores. At this point, it was little more than muscle memory. Once Kurt had finished packing, he examined the map of New Jersey that they had been following since Newark. He was confident they would cross into Pennsylvania today — Easton was only a few miles away.
"Rachel, time to get up," Santana called at last, kicking some dirt over the little fire pit just to make absolute sure the embers were completely out. "We've got to go."
Kurt made a mental note of how far it was to the Pennsylvania border, then folded up the map and slid it into his backpack's outer pocket.
"Rachel!" Santana snapped loudly. "Okay, fine, I'm stealing your blanket." She strode over to Rachel's side and yanked the blanket away with a flourish. Rachel didn't move; didn't even flinch. Santana hesitated, a frown contorting her features. Kurt froze and watched Santana crouch and give Rachel's shoulder a shake.
"Rachel, wake up," she urged.
"Is she okay?" Kurt asked. The pit of his stomach had abruptly gone cold.
Santana was quiet for a moment, her fingers resting on the skin of Rachel's arm. Rachel was facing away from them and Kurt could only see her back and hunched shoulders, her legs folded up close to her body. Her braided hair, messy and clumped from days on the road, hung to the ground in a limp rope. Her arms were tucked to her chest, hugging her torso as if to conserve heat, but her skin had taken on a hypothermic pallor. Kurt looked to Dani, praying that she was seeing something different, but she only stared at Rachel's back with a hand over her mouth.
Why was it suddenly so hard to breathe? Kurt felt as though someone had seized him by the neck and was slowly, cruelly, relentlessly constricting his throat. The tips of his fingers were numb. His knees went weak without warning, and he had to sit down.
After a heavy, suffocatingly long minute, Santana sat back. She said nothing, and Rachel still didn't move.