"Come in, Freddie, are you there?" Dr. Rose's voice crackled to life on the radio. Freddie sat up, shaking his head, jerking himself into wakefulness. He picked up the receiver.

"Good morning, Dr. Rose, this is Freddie," the young man mumbled into the receiver.

"Is anyone else around, Freddie?" Dr. Rose questioned.

"No mam, it's one in the morning. We're completely alone," Freddie informed her.

"Good, thank you for staying up so late again, Freddie," said Dr. Rose. A small smile played on Freddie's sleepy features.

"It's no problem," Freddie assured her.

"Alright, well I won't keep you long. Look, I need you to do me a big favour," Dr. Rose began, pausing briefly before continuing, "I need you to get someone, who you can trust, get them to find the immune person that Dr. Wilkins has claimed to have found. I need you to get them to bring you said person, so that you can bring them up to Canada, to where I am. We need to start acting a bit desperate."

The sleep drained from Freddie, and although he felt physically exhausted, his mind was on red alert. Dr. Rose was a rational woman, a practical lady that Freddie admired and looked up to. She never once had lost faith that she would be able to find a cure. So what had happened to make her suddenly decide that desperate actions were necessary?

"Alright, I can do that," Freddie confirmed. He paused a moment, front teeth biting down on his tongue, before saying, "If you don't mind, Dr. Rose, why the rush all of a sudden?"

A crackle of static and then, "I just feel like we're running out of time. We are, I think. We're running out of survivors. Professor Harris, in Sweden, has reported less and less numbers. Rhea has as well. We need a cure."

"I understand," Freddie said numbly, rubbing his hand on his leg, wiping off his sweaty palms.

"Thank you, Freddie," Dr. Rose responded.

It had been four weeks since the gang had settled into Lyn's house. Winter was holding off, which was both a blessing and a curse. Mike wanted to go home and wondered if maybe they should leave. Isaac was on edge, wondering if the odd weather meant a harsh soon-to-be winter. But despite the worry and wonder, things had settled into a nice routine.

Davy felt that, despite the stress this situation put on Mike, things were looking up for Peter. Although he was still crying out in the middle of the night from nightmares, Davy often sat and listened to him play his guitar. Lyn and George enjoyed it very much, and Davy got the sense that Peter was happy, which was more than Davy could say for himself. And Micky's arm was mending quickly, something that everyone was relieved about.

"You know, Tara used to play the drums, in high school," George said, a faint smile playing upon his face.

"Micky plays drums like nobody's business. Maybe they could exchange secrets of the trade," Peter joked. Davy felt better that Peter really seemed to be opening up and acting more like himself, more so then he had in the past year.

"I haven't played in so long, I don't think I could remember anything," Tara admitted.

The group had gathered in the living room, readying themselves for the evening.

"And my arm's still busted," Micky added, raising his arm with the makeshift cast.

"It should be all better soon," Isaac commented.

The conversation continued as Peter strummed out a little tune here and there. Eventually, one by one everyone went up to bed until it was just Mike, Ronda, and Peter.

"I am pleased to see you so talkative, Peter," Ronda commented tentatively, eyes on Peter in order to judge his reaction.

Peter looked up from his bass and smiled brightly at Ronda.

"I am too," he admitted.

"We really deserved some down time, after everything," said Mike, feeling relaxed for once. Things almost felt normal, in that moment.

"Indeed, I think this has been good for the group," Ronda nodded.

"You two make great leaders, you know," Peter complimented. Ronda and Mike gave Peter equally modest looks.

"Being a leader is nothing, as long as ya got a good group of folks together. It ain't just one person," Mike mumbled, feeling awkward. He had never been one for praise. Neither had Ronda.

"Agreed," Ronda nodded her head. Peter just laughed, shook his head, and continued to fool around on his bass. There was a stretch of silence.

"Peter," Ronda began, pausing for a moment before starting again, "Peter, I wanted to ask something."

Peter propped the bass next to him and rubbed his hand under his chin, replying with, "What's up?"

"I wanted to ask you how it felt to… to be infected. I know… you don't have to answer if you do not wanna, I understand, but my wife, I just want peace of mind knowin' she didn't suffer too much, if you understand me," Ronda said slowly, eyes casted towards the floor.

Peter saw Mike tense up physically, the muscles in his body betraying the fear he felt inside. A flash of anger, a wave of sadness, both these emotions and more, some unidentifiable, ran through the Texan in the blink of an eye. But all Peter felt was a cold numbness in the pit of his stomach.

"It felt like hell," Peter answered frankly, "Like your whole body was on fire but on the inside and sometimes you couldn't feel it at all. I don't…" His voice cracked slightly and he coughed to cover it up. He could see Mike's distress and knew Mike didn't want this to continue.

"I don't think it could have been the same for your wife, Ronda. But it probably was just as bad. I'm so sorry about your loss," Peter finished.

Ronda looked at Peter, expressionless, and then a small smile bloomed on her face.

"Thank you, Peter," Ronda murmured. She got up and went over to Peter, leaned down and placed a kiss onto his forehead.

"You're welcome…?" Peter answered, unsure of how to respond.

"Goodnight, then, goodnight, Mike," Ronda said. The two men chorused a goodbye and Ronda went upstairs.

Mike was still tense. He felt a bit sick. He hated thinking about Peter being infected, he just hated it.

"Are you okay, Michael?" Peter asked. Mike swallowed hard and rubbed his hands against his jeans.

"I'm fine, shotgun," Mike replied.

"Mike, did you hate me for getting infected?" Peter blurted suddenly. Mike looked up sharply and instantly said, shocked, "No, Peter, I could never hate you."

Of course, that was true, but not entirely. Mike had felt very conflicted when he had thought Peter had no way out of death. He had felt angry, upset, extremely sad, but most of all he felt disappointed in himself. Mike should have been there for Peter. He should have been the one to be infected, because what if Peter hadn't been immune?

"Okay," Peter nodded his head, "I was just wondering. Because I blame myself sometimes." Mike frowned at that comment.

"Pete, what are your nightmares about? You haven't talked to me about those for a couple of months now," Mike questioned.

In the past, Peter had always come to Mike and they had discussed his nightmares. Mike hadn't minded considering he hadn't been able to sleep, but recently Peter hadn't said a word. Mike had asked Davy if Peter was coming to him, and then Micky, but both men had said that Peter had not.

Peter looked at Mike and Mike was struck by how skinny Peter was. Although he had started to eat better, the year of eating poorly had taken a toll on the bassist. Mike felt his heart hurt at the dullness in Peter's eyes as he stared at Mike directly.

"I dream that I've turned and that I'm hurting you, or Davy, or Micky. It's always different. Sometimes I'm… I'm really busting one of you guys up, or one of you guys are telling me what a monster I am," Peter said coldly. It chilled Mike's blood to hear Peter speak so nonchalant about such horrible dreams.

"But the worst ones are the realistic ones. The ones where I can't tell if I'm awake or asleep. In those ones, Isaac tells me he was wrong and that I'm not immune, that the virus is only taking a really long time to affect me. Then you, Mike, you try to kill me before I turn, but I turn before you can. I infect you first, usually, and then Davy. Isaac, Ronda, and Heather leave and I try to chase after them but Micky shoots me. The look on his face, the pain I see in his eyes, it's what always gets me," Peter continued.

There was a silence that filled the room after Peter finished. Mike stared at Peter, horrified that this was what Peter was dreaming at night. It shouldn't have shocked Mike, not in the least since it was to be expected after everything Peter had gone through, but it still did, Mike couldn't help that.

"I'm sorry, Pete, that's terrible," Mike finally croaked. He shut his eyes for a moment, forcing himself not to cry. Why did he feel the need to cry? He wasn't sure.

"It's okay, Mike, it isn't your fault or anything," Peter told him.

"I'm still sorry, Peter," Mike insisted. Peter ran a hand through his hair and then smiled such a sweet smile at Mike that it almost made his heart hurt more so than the thought of him having nightmares.

"Thanks, Michael," Peter said.

There's was yet another stretch of silence before Mike spoke, saying, "How about we head up to bed? It's late." He needed to get away from this conversation.

"Sounds good to me," Peter agreed, before getting up and putting his guitar back into it's case. Then they went upstairs to bed.

It was later that night when Peter woke up. Unknown to him, it was around three in the morning and, obviously known to him, he needed to pee. So Peter got out of bed- he and Mike had been stationed on the outside of the bed tonight since Davy and Micky had gone to bed before them- and he crept out of the room. He padded down the hallway and went into the bathroom, turning on the light after shutting the door behind him.

Ronda and Davy had hunted around the area to find as many bottles of water as possible and they had indeed found quite a lot. But Lyn had also confessed that the water running through her plumbing was safe since it came from an underground well. No one understood why it worked, but it did, and the group was thankful for that.

Peter relieved his bladder and then washed his hands. The cool water felt good against his palms and so he leaned down, splashing it against his cheeks. The water felt good and he realized how hot he was despite the cold house. Peter straightened up and looked in the mirror.

His heart skipped a beat and his stomach flipped, bile rising in his throat. He began to feel dizzy and horrified. The face staring back at him couldn't be his own, it wasn't his own. The eyes were a milky white, with black veins straining against greying skin. What was looking back at him was an infected.

He had to be asleep. He was having a nightmare… but this had never happened in one of his dreams before. What if it was real? His heart was beating so fast, the blood pounding in his ears. What if it was real?

"Peter!" Davy's voice cut through suddenly, breaking the trance that Peter seemed to be in. He blinked and his reflection was normal, it was him, perfectly fine and healthy looking, if not a bit pale and underweight.

But he wasn't infected.

"Peter, christ, wake up, mate," Davy snapped. He was shaking Peter vigorously, trying to wake him up.

"Davy?" Peter frowned, glancing at the Englishman. Mike was stood in the bathroom doorway, brows knitted together. Micky was yawning but equally concerned looking and Isaac could be seen peeking up from behind his shoulder. The others must have been sent back to their rooms.

"Peter, what's wrong?" Davy asked. Peter glanced back at the mirror. He was still healthy looking. Had he really been dreaming?

"I… I thought I saw… nothing… I just had a scare, I'm sorry for waking everyone up," Peter stumbled for words. He didn't know how his friends would react to him admitting that he thought he was awake when he had seen himself infected in the mirror. Even he was badly shaken up by it, questioning whether or not he was truly free from infection.

"Are you feeling alright, Peter?" Isaac questioned.

"Yeah, I just… I was having a nightmare and I guess I was only half-awake," Peter shrugged.

"Alright, you're better then?" Micky asked.

"Yes, I am, I'm sorry to have woken everyone up," Peter apologized.

"It's okay, shotgun, we just want to make sure you're okay," Mike piped up.

"I'm fine, really," Peter forced a smile.

"Well, I suggest we all go back to sleep then," Isaac mumbled, and Micky was quick to agree. So they went back to their rooms, Isaac and Micky, and a reluctant Mike. But Davy lingered. He saw Peter staring at himself, a hand nearly going to his face as if to check that it was still there.

"Peter, what scared you?" he asked. Peter stared at Davy, eyes wide.

"Something must have scared you pretty awful for you to scream like that," Davy went on, pressing his friend to open up.

"I thought I was infected," Peter hissed after a moment, voice barely audible. Davy felt sick at the fear he saw in Peter's eyes. He had really felt that he was infected. His stomach clenched, anger at the injustice of it all nearly overwhelming him.

"But you aren't infected, Peter. You're here, healthy and happy," Davy assured him, trying to relax his body as well.

"I know," Peter whispered, running a hand over his face and then through his hair. Davy grabbed that hand suddenly, quickly pulling Peter closer to him.

"Peter, do you feel my hand?" he asked. Peter nodded.

"See, you aren't infected. You won't ever be, you are immune. You've got me, and Mike, and Micky to protect you. Isaac and Ronda too. You aren't alone and you don't have to put up some silly barricade and keep us out. You can talk to us, mate," Davy said, looking directly at Peter, who shifted uncomfortably under his friend's gaze despite the comfort it brought him.

"You're alright, Peter," Davy finished.

"Thanks, Davy," mumbled Peter. Davy smiled at the bassist.

"C'mon now, I'm bushed and I'm sure you are too," Davy said before the two of the followed Mike back into their bedroom.

Things were better after that night, for everyone. The first snow came, soft and gentle, unlike how Mike had thought it would turn out, four days later. The group grew closer as they were driven indoors more often than not. Tara made fast friends with Davy, the two talking and chatting constantly. George and Micky entertained Lyn most days, and Mike, Ronda, and Isaac kept an eye on the runnings of things such as supplies and the like. Peter played his guitar every night now, just him, although sometimes Mike joined in on his own guitar.

Heather was an outlier. She was distant and short, preferring to talk with Davy and Tara about weapons and strategy than Lyn, Micky, and George about stories and fantastical ideas. Isaac had voiced his concern about Heather's change in behaviour to Mike, though the Texan told him that she was just adjusting to everything and that he shouldn't worry.

He had felt a change in himself too. There was something wrong with this whole setup. It was too quiet, too peaceful, too normal. They hadn't seen any infected in some time and from being on the road Mike had gathered that things weren't this good for long. Something bad was on the horizon but Mike couldn't quite put his finger on what was going to happen. Some days, he felt he was going crazy, thinking he could somehow feel the future. The Texan gave no hint that he was thinking that either. He had to appear strong and confident in front of his group, especially for the sake of his friends.

Of course, the night that they were ambushed, Mike was singing a different tune.

It was a few days after the first snow. Zak, one of Father Carl's goons, had spotted Davy, Ronda, and Tara out on a patrol. He had sent one of his men to go get Maria and Yaseen, so that they could attack as one unit. It had take days, obviously, but Zak kept track of the group.

Once their forces were gathered, they attacked in the night.

Mike had been violently jerked out of sleep by the sound of breaking glass. He sprung out of bed, causing Davy to do the same. Mike motioned to Davy to wake the others before he crept out of the room and into the hallway. Tara was already outside as well. The two made eye contact and knew that they would look together.

So they crept to the stairs and peered down into the living room. At least three or more beings were looking around. One whispered that they must be upstairs. A cold sense of panic flooded Mike's body, and he pulled Tara back up the stairs. Ronda was there then.

"We have to get everyone out now as quickly and quietly as possible," Mike hissed.

Just as Ronda and Tara were nodding their agreement, someone downstairs, a woman's voice, announced, "All clear". They were going to be coming up the stairs in mere seconds. The trio broke up, racing back to their respective bedrooms.

Mike first went into his room. Davy had gotten Peter up easily but Micky was reluctant to really wake up and get out of bed.

"The church people are coming," Mike hissed into the room before quickly disappearing to go get Lyn out of the house. That woke Micky right up. Mike heard footsteps on the stairs. He had to stay focused. Everything seemed to be moving so quickly. He sprinted into Lyn's room and locked the door behind him. How were any of them going to get out of this house?

"Mike, what's going on?" Lyn murmured, sleepily rubbing at her eyes.

"We have to go," Mike stated, yanking the girl out of bed before going to the window and looking down. There was enough snow at the bottom that maybe they would be able to survive if they jumped.

"What's happening?" Lyn repeated, fear shaking her voice this time. Mike opened the window. The doorknob rattled. Lyn sucked in a sharp breath and Mike's heart began to claw at his ribs. Then everything in him went shaky as a gunshot went off and Tara screamed. Lyn shrieked and ran to Mike's side.

There was shouting and more gunshots, and suddenly there was pounding on Lyn's door. They were going to break down the door. Thoughts of his friends tried to dominate his mind, but Mike knew he had to focus on keeping Lyn safe right now.

"You have to jump out the window," Mike said to her suddenly. She was crying now, eyes glued to the door that was nearly off it's hinges.

"What?" she gasped, eyes still focused on the door.

"Jump, for Christ's sake," Mike snapped, pushing the girl towards the open window and nearly pushing her out. But the door gave in and two armed goons entered the room.

"Don't shoot them, Paulie, we've gotta have them as insurance," one of them said upon seeing Peter absent among them.

"Sure, we won't shoot them, but Yaseen never said nothing about having a little fun," the other one, Paulie, smirked, before advancing towards Mike and Lyn, his eyes trained hungrily on Lyn.

Mike knew this man had nothing but bad intentions for Lyn, and he wasn't going to stand by and leave things up to fate and hope that his gut feelings were wrong. The Texan darted forward suddenly and slammed his elbow into Paulie's stomach. Paulie doubled over and dropped his firearm. Seizing the chance, Mike scooped it up and quickly shuffled backwards, aiming at Paulie. The other goon raised his weapon and Paulie grinned at Mike.

"Oh, so you're a fighter, ha ha, well I bet you don't even have the guts to pull that trigger, even if it meant saving your daughter or whoever the hell that fine little number is behind you," Paulie spat.

Lyn had been frozen in fear up until that moment.

"Stuff it," she snapped. Paulie was about to make a remark but then suddenly Mike blinked. He felt himself pull the trigger and he saw Paulie fly back as a bullet hit him in the chest. He felt himself pull the trigger again and he saw the other goon crumple as a bullet hit him in the head. He then realized he was still shooting, still pulling the trigger, still firing upon Paulie.

The firearm began to click empty and Mike dropped the gun. He began to shake and he stared, wide eyed at the two crumpled bodies before him. They were dead. They were dead, oh god, he felt as if he were going to be sick.

"Mike, more of them are coming, what do we do?" Lyn's voice shook him back to the present.

"Out the window," Mike repeated and this time he didn't fuss around. He grabbed the other goon's weapon and then jumped out of the window. He had been right. Mike landed on a pile of snow without harm, although he was very cold. He put aside the firearm and motioned for Lyn to do the same. She did, this time without hesitation. Once they were both safely on the ground, Mike picked up the weapon.

"Mike!" Micky's voice was a sweet relief to hear. Mike looked over and saw Micky waving at him from the garage.

"Get over here, quick!" Micky shouted. Mike and Lyn rushed over. Isaac was in the driver's seat of the Monkeemobile, pulling out of the garage.

"Get in, we're leaving," Micky said, as he opened the door and let Lyn clamber in.

"Where's everyone else?" Mike asked, his whole body shaking at this point. It was too dark for Micky to notice though.

"In the house. Davy wanted to go find Tara and George. They were safe last time I saw them," Micky answered. Mike nodded and went to go back into the house, but Micky grabbed his arm and lugged him inside the Monkeemobile.

"What the hell?" barked Mike, whirling around to stare at Micky.

"Mike, you're shaking? And… is that blood? Mike what happened to you?" Micky demanded.

Before Mike could retort with "I don't matter, they do, let me go back for them" two goons burst through the garage door and Isaac floored it. The car lurched forward, rumbling over the snow.

Inside the house, Ronda and Davy were carrying an injured George out of the back door of the house. Heather and Peter were rushing out after them. There was shouting and the little band rushed out the back. They were running as fast as they could.

The goons were after them soon though.

"He can't go on for much longer, we need to see where he's bleeding from," Ronda pointed out. The longer they ran, the heavier George got.

"Just keep moving for a while longer, I'll handle this," Peter shouted and then pelted away.

"Peter, wait!" Davy shouted, suddenly horrified.

"Davy, we need to keep moving," Heather insisted. Then suddenly they all heard Peter bellow, "Over here, I'm over here, come and get me!"

"Quickly, there!" a goon shouted.

"No, Peter!" Davy shouted, jerking away from George, leaving Ronda to fall to the ground to keep George from falling completely.

Davy was met with a slap in the face.

"You can't go after him, you have to stay here and help," Heather snapped. Davy blinked at her.

"He's sealed his fate," Heather continued but was interrupted with Ronda exclaiming, "Something's happening." Davy and Heather turned to see George convulsing on the snowy ground. Blood was turning the white crimson and there was a lot of it.

"Where's it coming from?" Davy asked. Ronda ripped open Georg's shirt only to find a large gun wound in his side.

"Tara," George moaned suddenly, his body continuing to convulse.

"I think he's going into shock or something," Heather said.

"Help me put pressure on this, give me your jacket," Ronda snapped. Heather shrugged off her jacket and Ronda pressed it onto the wound and Davy helped.

"Davy, your belt, take it off," Ronda instructed. Davy undid his belt and handed it to Ronda, who then tied the leather around George's mid-section, the belt holding pressure on the jacket and wound. She then scooped him up and stood.

"Heather, you know this place better then me or Davy. Where do we go? We need to get out of the cold," said Ronda.

"Right, there's a house I think right up ahead," Heather replied and set a brisk pace forwards.

As the foursome advanced, Davy threw a glance over his shoulder, in the direction that Peter had gone. Part of him wanted to go after his friend, save him from a doomed fate, but the majority of him knew that he wouldn't be able to take on all of those guys by himself and that it if he got captured, it would only spell more trouble for Peter.

Isaac pulled the car over after two hours of driving. Micky felt worried for Mike. Yes, Davy and Peter were out there somewhere, but he knew that Davy would protect Peter, plus they both had Ronda to keep them out of trouble. But in the two hours that they had been driving, Mike had barely said a word. He had revealed, after Lyn had told them her portion of the story, that he had shot and killed two church goons.

But besides the basics, Mike hadn't offered anything more. This worried Micky. Mike looked so small sitting there next to him in the back. He looked small and sad, very much unlike Mike. Isaac took the keys out of the ignition and put them on the dashboard before turning around in his seat.

"Okay, Lyn and I are going to go over to those little shops up ahead and look for some food or something. You two can wait here, make sure we aren't followed. In the morning, we'll go back to the house and go from there," he announced.

"We should go back now," Mike mumbled.

"It'd be too dangerous," Isaac countered, "We need to make sure those goons are gone."

"Isaac's right," Micky said to Mike gently, his brows knitted together. Mike turned his head so that Micky couldn't see his face.

"Alright, c'mon Lyn," Isaac said as he clambered out of the car. Lyn hesitantly exited the Monkeemobile as well.

For a few minutes, Micky didn't say anything, but not for long.

"Mike, I'm sorry I let us split up," he said slowly.

"We were all sleeping in different rooms, we should have been smarter, it wasn't just your fault," Mike replied, through gritted teeth.

"No, not the whole group, I mean like… Peter and Davy. I'm sorry I let them get split up from us, you and me," Micky clarified. Mike turned to Micky. Although it was dimly lit in the car, Micky could have sworn Mike's eyes were red and puffy, like he'd been crying.

"It ain't your fault, I's the one to split us up," Mike's voice had dropped an octave and had less of a bitter edge to it.

"Well it wasn't your fault either," Micky assured the Texan, and then tentatively added, "And neither was you killing those guys. I mean, Lyn said she knew that one guy wanted to mess her up so… they had it coming, ya dig."

Mike looked down at his lap. Micky couldn't tell if he was getting through or not. There was something knotted sitting heavy in his stomach.

"Ya know, Davy asked me, couple a nights ago, if he was a bad person and I said you ain't bad Davy cos you ain't killed no one yet," Mike said after a moment.

Micky took a shaky breath.

"Do you think you're a bad person now, Mike?" he asked.

Mike didn't respond. Micky knew that perhaps he might be pushing his friend, but he knew it was more important to know that Mike was alright. He had to be alright. Ever since day one, Mike had always been everyone's rock. Micky knew he was troubled, but Mike always was able to put on a brave face. Even when Micky felt he was carrying the group sometimes, he still would always think 'what would Mike do?'.

"Mike?" Micky thought his voice sounded too pleading, not as sure and stable as he wanted it to sound.

"I don't know, Mick," Mike finally answered.

He leaned his head back against the car seat, letting out a long sigh.

"This is all so messed up," he continued, "The infection, those people, us. Everything's all just messed up and I don't know what's right or wrong anymore."

"Well, then I'll tell you," Micky gnawed on the inside of his left cheek, "You saved Lyn. That's all that matters. You've done so much for me, and Peter, and Davy. Even before the infection. You're not a bad guy, Mike. You're one of the good guys."

Mike looked at Micky. Even through the dim lighting, Micky could see the look Mike was giving him. A mixture of defeat and acceptance.

"Yeah, one of the good guys," he repeated, then leaned his head against Micky's shoulder.

Almost instantly, Mike fell asleep. Micky pulled him closer, so that it wasn't uncomfortable for either of them, and waited until Lyn and Isaac returned.

Author's Note: Thanks for reading! Okay, so, it's obviously been a LONG while since I've last posted but I think I'm back on track now. I took some time away from this fic because I was hitting writer's block while working on it, so now I think I've worked out the kinks. Hopefully this chapter was an enjoyable one & that people will continue to read this even though it's been a while.