From Uncertainty to Impatience

The phone has been long forgotten, but she hasn't forgotten the words she had heard only hours before. Rachel was still alive, she was in the city, she was still alive.

She packs essentials before she can talk herself out of it. The sun has already long since set, but her patience has all but left her. Another human, alive and well, is hiding within the city and she must find her.

Rachel Berry could be a lot of things, but the thought of having a companion, someone to talk to, was enough to shun all thoughts of solitude in her mind. She packs her rations, stowing them away safely in her backpack, and runs up and down the apartment until she feels she can handle to brunt of the weight resting on her back and shoulders.

She wonders if she should take anything else.

Looking around, she glances at the photos that line the walls, and thinks back to Jackie and how all mementos of a previous life had been snatched from the walls and taken to safety.

But that previous life has gone, and what would a few photos give her, except the extra weight to carry? She looks at each one, taking in the faces of her mother and sister, her graduation photo from both High School and Yale, the one picture of the Glee club Sophomore year when things were much more simpler in life.

With a sigh, she takes them, stowing them safely away in her backpack. They may show a life that no longer blooms on this earth, but they're still memories all the same, and memories are the only thing that gives her the strength to move on.

Her apartment had been her solitude, and now, it was almost like a prison, and now she could walk free. But could she truly muster the strength to walk into the unknown, knowing that she may not come back alive? Would she be able to face the death that linger outside and contaminates everything around her? Will she be able to find Rachel before its too late, before she truly is left alone again?

She takes one last glance around her apartment and shuts the door behind her.

The darkness seems to be a pro instead of a con, it seems. Although more infected litter the streets, she can use the darkness to somehow manoeuvre her way through the darkness without alerting any nearby hordes.

It takes a lot of time, but she'd rather take her time and be careful, than run face first into a travelling pack of the infected. She could take on a few at a time, that much was certain, but if she happened to slip up, only once, it could be the end of her.

She takes her time, meticulous in her movements, and continues on.

It's when she's four blocks away, however, that she has no idea where she's going.

She doesn't know where Rachel is hiding, nor where she lives. They hadn't really kept in contact since they left Lima. She slides into an alleyway and presses herself up against the wall. What the hell is she doing; putting her life in danger to find someone she has no idea the location of?

With a sigh, she wonders where she could begin.

Rachel Berry could be a lot of things, including predictable, but she could also be very smart and cunning. Although hiding out in a theatre on Broadway would be exactly what Rachel would do, it would also be an excellent tactical move.

With Rachel being on Broadway, she would know the ins and outs of such buildings, and those buildings were incredibly well protected due to the expensive equipment that sits inside. It would be the best place to hide for someone that didn't particularly want to involve themselves with the infected world outside.

Broadway was in lower Manhattan, and from her location in Brooklyn, she'd have to travel a good 2 hours on foot. The subways hadn't been in service since the first few days of the outbreak and with cars littering the streets; it would be impossible to manoeuvre around them without getting stuck.

It would be a long walk, but if she ran most of the way, and took the shortcuts she knew, she could lower it to an hour and a half. It would be exhausting, but anything would be better than standing in the middle of a crowded street, full with infected.

Handing resting on her knife, clutching the handle, almost like a security blanket, she continues on.

Broadway isn't the glitz and glamour it was a few months ago. Once a buzzing hub of excitement and theatre, it now stands as a stark reminder of the infection that has disturbed the world order. Blood cakes the once pristine concrete walls. Police cars, ambulances and fire trucks sit, half destroyed and unusable, along the whole street.

Broadway is no longer a place of dreams, and more like a place that you only think about in the darkest of nightmares. The cool night air, and the endless groans of infected, send a shiver down her spine.

She has an idea of where to start, thanks to her friend, Greg Rossum, that worked the Arts section of the New York Times. She often spoke with him, and being a good friend, he often asked her to proof read his work before he handed it into the editor of the paper.

Rachel was often a staple in the theatre section, and the last time she had seen her old high school friend's name in the New York Times, Rachel had the lead role of Roxy Hart in Chicago. For the life of her, however, she can't remember what theatre Greg had penned down on the papers.

Luck is on her side, however, when she saw that the billboards for the musicals on Broadway remained standing proud high above her head.

She misses the sounds of the theatre. She never went before the infection struck; often too busy with college, or friends, or when she started her job, too busy with work. She wonders where the actors and actresses are now, and if they still sing to themselves to keep their hopes up.

There have been times, when she has been sat alone in her apartment, that she has caught herself singing. For a moment, it brings a calm over her, a clarity, but then she looked outside her window and didn't feel the happiness of singing anymore.

There were no more show tunes, or a Top 40 that she could listen to on the subway as she headed to work. There was nothing to sing in the shower.

The only song that was sung now, was the endless droning groans of the infected that inhabit her once proud city.

Infected litter the streets, and she's careful to avoid any one of them. Although she has the tools to keep herself defended, she doesn't really want to attract anymore of them as she takes one down. They seem content to walk the streets, and that's just fine by her.

She continues on, using the same tactics that she had used only days before. She dashes and hides behind motionless cars, waiting for a clear space before moving again. She has at least a mile of road to travel up, and although she had taken shortcuts to arrive at Broadway, it had still taken her longer than she had anticipated; killing lone infected as she travelled, had slowed her considerably.

Exhaustion was slowly creeping up on her, but she made sure to keep herself hydrated, and only eat when her stomach protested too loudly. She was on a mission, and she would complete it, her stomach be damned.

In her exhaustion, she can't be sure how quiet she is being. Many of the infected are silent, but others are groaning, and she can't quite make out if they can hear her or not. She knows she's in a bad spot, and she knows that she has to rest sooner rather than later.

If only she can find that damn billboard.

Wicked, Phantom of the Opera and the Book of Mormon are the first few billboards she sees, and quickly dismisses them as she continues to travel up Broadway. She wonders, silently, if she's actually passing by Rachel as she continues on her path. Or if Rachel is in an entirely different part of New York.

She can't be sure, but something in her gut tells her that Rachel is nearby. She's known Rachel since High School, she knows her habits, and she knows that Rachel would be infuriated if she didn't die on a damn stage.

With each billboard she passes, her energy levels slowly deplete; she's almost at breaking point, and the end of Broadway doesn't seem to be coming anytime soon. It seems to extend and distort in front of her vision, and then she begins to breathe heavily.

Slumping against a fire truck, she adjusts her mask, wondering if she's getting enough oxygen to her lungs, or if it is just exhaustion.

Then it dawns on her.

She's never been out this long; what if the infection truly was airborne? Could she be infected? Could her pounding heart and heaving breaths be the first signs of an impending doom?

With a shake of her head, she pushes off the truck and steels herself. Infected be damned, she has to run and find the right theatre. She can't be out here any longer.

She sets off, relentless, down the road, and although she sees the infected stop to look at her, she's already yards away before they've even taken their first step toward her. Although they have the element of fear on their side, she has speed, and as her feet pound on the asphalt, she knows she has the upper hand.

Then she stops, almost slamming into a cab that has slammed and imbedded itself in one of the theatre walls.

A giant billboard looms overhead; Chicago, Ambassador Theatre

She rewards herself with a quick swig of her water and continues on her mad dash, taking a hard right onto West 49th Street.

She stops dead in her tracks.

The infected litter outside the theatre, pounding on the glass doors, trying with all their might to get inside. She does a quick headcount; at least nineteen. Eyes darting across the street, she sees De Marino across the street, a quaint Italian restaurant, and quickly formulates a plan.

She slides by the infected, and straight into the restaurant; its doors wide open.

The infected were attracted by smell, and if her calculations were correct, with the power outage and a restaurant's need for meat…

She pulls open the freezer that sits in the spacious kitchen and gags, resting her hands on her knees, forcing back the wave of sickness that overcomes her. Fuck, it was worse than she expected.

With a groan, she takes handful's of the putrid meat into her hands and heads into the dining room, forming almost a track for the infected to follow, right back to the freezer.

Hiding behind the doors, she throws a few pieces out onto the street, and crosses her fingers.

They come eventually.

It starts with one, and then another follows, then another, and then slowly, but surely, the rest of the group. They shove at one another to follow the scent of the putrid smell, and holds her breath as they slowly wander into the restaurant, following the trail like dogs.

She waits only moments after the last infected has disappeared into the kitchen and slowly slides back out, catching sight of one remaining infected in the street that is still ripping away at a piece of meat that she had thrown out there.

With a quick swipe to the head with her two knives, it's dispatched with quickly, and she dashes across the street to the Ambassador. The doors are sealed, and although the thought of breaking one of the windows filters through her mind, she doesn't really enjoy the thought of drawing the infected back out with the noise, or leaving the theatre with an opening that they could easily walk through.

She glances around the exterior of the building, and sees, just left of the main doors is a sealed alley with a fire escape leading up to the roof. Although the alley is sealed off with a fence that homes some mean looking barbed wire she makes no complaints as she throws her backpack over and then climbs over the barrier, careful to avoid scratching or maiming herself.

Safely behind the fence, she adjusts her backpack and pulls down the small stairs that lead up the building.

Eventually, she climbs to the roof, and with bated breath, she tries the roof access door.

It opens.

The Ambassador Theatre is quite a marvel when it's all lit up and homes some of the best singers and actors in New York City, but now, in the lingering darkness and cool calmness, she finds herself unsheathing both of her knives as she descends the stairs to the main floor.

Unfortunately, she doesn't know the layout, having never been to the theatre, but she makes quick work of checking the first two floors she comes to, which are thankfully devoid of infected.

After the third floor and seeing no infected, or hearing any, she sheathes her knives again, content to wander the halls without the need to be armed to the teeth. Although the urge to shout Rachel's name is there, she doesn't really feel like testing her luck today.

If an infected is in the building, she doesn't want to give away her location. She'll just have to search the old fashioned way; door by door, room by room.

It takes a good thirty minutes before she descends to the main theatre hall. The stage is completely abandoned, and although some of the sets of Chicago still remain, most have been torn down, and the rigging above her head which houses the many lights that brings life to the stage, hang by loose wires and threaten to fall on her.

The theatre looks almost dilapidated down here, and she can only imagine the panic that ensued as the infection hit. Actors and actresses running for their lives, couples and family members trying with all their strength to get out of the theatre before the infected claim them.

The whole environment screams a sense of panic, and Quinn feels an involuntary shiver run through her as she walks down the lower circle. She remembers the last time she did this, clear as day. Her time in Glee, when she took one part of a duet with Sam, and how everyone had watched her, watched the Club. It had been invigorating, and now, it was just a bittersweet memory.

She climbs onto the stage, feeling her arms quake as she pushes herself up. She takes a moment just to regain her breath, and take a swig from her water bottle. She's half tempted to take a nap, but since the infection spread, she'd been an incredibly light sleeper, and even behind locked doors and windows, she can't shake the feeling she's not safe enough to sleep.

Instead, she clambers back to her feet and walks backstage. She can't help but let her feet drag. It had been a long day, and the sun hadn't even begun to rise. She had been on her feet for over a day, and hadn't slept in just as long. Lack of food had taken a toll on her also.

Exhausted, she uses the wall to steady herself as she walks the halls backstage. One by one, she checks the rooms, and comes to find them empty. With each empty room, she loses just a little bit more hope, and as she wanders down the hall, further into a dark abyss, she wonders if she should just give up.

Finding Rachel is just a pipe dream, and the only reason she thinks Rachel is here is because she wants to believe it. She's making herself believe that Rachel is close by, is still as predictable as she was all those years ago. She wants to believe that, even though months of infection had destroyed the entire population of New York, that Rachel had somehow survived.

And what was to say that she had? A phone call? She hadn't slept all that well before she made the call, she had been both hungry and thirsty, clouded with stress and worry; what was to say she didn't just imagine the call? Was there any tangible proof that the phone call had even gone through?

Tears brimming in her eyes, she rests her forehead against the cool plaster and lets out a few controlled breaths. Was she going insane or was she right to believe that human life still existed?

She couldn't be the only one alive, right?

She can't be the only one.

Shoving herself away from the wall, she continues, sweeping through rooms, hoping to find any sign that anyone had been there recently.

She comes to the final door and tries the handle. It jiggles softly in her hand, but doesn't turn.

Locked.

"Shit…" She whispers quietly to herself and pulls out her knife, poising it between the door frame. She only hopes that what Mack taught her back in High School had stayed with her. She tries the handle as she slides tip of the knife up and down slowly. It works better with a slim card, but she manages to make it work. It takes a few aborted attempts, but she finally manages to push the door open.

The room is empty.

Threading her fingers through her choppy hair, she barely holds back the urge to rip the hair from her skull. The theatre was a dead end, and her own gullibility had made her believe in something that wasn't even true.

The spark of hope slowly begins to diminish within her, and with a sigh, she glances around the room.

It doesn't even look like anyone has been inside; the whole room was immaculate, and stage make up stayed stacked, color co-ordinated on the dressing table. Eyes dim, half lidded, exhausting reigning over her, she turns to leave, but stops.

She saw it.

Turning back to the dresser, she picks up the handbag that sits beside a tube of lipstick. Inside is an iPod and a phone. She tries to power the phone on, but all she's greeted with is a black screen. She flips it in the palm of her hand, glancing around the room.

Why would someone just leave their phone? It was the only line of communication people had; who would leave it to just drain?

She eyes the room slowly, then pulls the iPod from the bag. Thankfully, it's still on, and while still in the red battery wise, she's able to get on to it. She's met with the smiling faces of Rachel Berry and Kurt Hummel.

This was Rachel's bag, and the phone she had used.

One hand resting on her knife, the other flipping through the music, she picks a song, and counts herself in slowly.

"I wish I could tie you up in my shoes, make you feel unpretty too.

I was told I was beautiful, but what does that mean to you?

Look into the mirror, who's inside there? The one with the long hair.

Same old me again today…"

She listens to the song, imagining Rachel coming in, just as she did back in High School, but she's met with a foreign voice and a familiar tune.

"Come on…" She whispers harshly, wandering slowly around the room. "You could never pass up a song."

All too soon, the song comes to an end, and the iPod dies. Dejected, she leans back against the closet door and kicks it harshly. "Where are you…?"

She wonders; could it truly be a cliché?

She pulls open the closet door, then frowns.

Nothing but a slip of paper.

Tentatively, she picks it up, scared that it'll rip between her fingers and reads the hasty scrawl.

Quinn,

If you're reading this, you figured out where I was hiding. I haven't eaten in a few days, and I've gone out in search for food and water. Wait here for me. I'll be back, eventually.

I hope.

Rachel.

P.S - As impatient as you are, you'll no doubt want to find me. I'll stay on Broadway.

Reading the words over and over, she processes them.

Rachel is nearby.

Rachel is alive.

Rachel is alive, but maybe not for long.

From the sounds of it, Rachel hasn't taken down an infected before, and the thought of going out there alone, with no protection, doesn't bode well. She doesn't know how they act, how they are attracted by both smell and sound.

She could be in trouble.

Quinn runs faster than she ever has before.

She leaps over the fence that barricades her from the main street, and in her haste, she slashes her hand. Pain barely registering, she takes off down the street, avoiding infected that stop to turn and look at her. At the intersection, she looks up and down Broadway, hoping to find some sign of Rachel's movements, but finds nothing.

Infected still walk the streets and they don't seem to have clocked on to any sort of human life.

Quinn catches her breath as she decides to go up and down. She hadn't seen anything on the way up, so she takes a gamble and runs up the rest of Broadway, peering into nearby stores and restaurants as she passes by them.

Infected are hot on her tail and she can barely spend more than a few seconds looking into buildings before more are catching up to her. Knives pulled free from their holsters, she takes down two that stand in her way and she continues to run, feet pounding the ground, chest heaving, face warm and clammy.

It's hopeless, she begins to think as she reaches the tip of Broadway. At a loss, at a dead end and on her last nerve, she pushes her head back and screams.

"Rachel!"

It echoes along the empty streets, and she's met with the vulture like groans of the infected. They begin to surround her, circling her, and she stands, immobile, body shaking as rage takes control of her.

She lashes out.

One knife lunges between the eyes of one infected, the other, straight down on its skull. She pulls them free and continues the tirade, killing any infected that takes one step forward toward her. Their congealed blood splatters across her leather jacket and face mask, and in her rage, she rips the rag free from her face.

If she's going to be infected, she'll go down fighting.

With more blows, more infected drop to her feet, lifeless and unmoving, and as the rage slowly dissipates from her body, exhaustion begins to settle in once more. Her arms feel like jelly, and she can barely pull her knife free from one infected's eye socket with how weak she is.

She begins to stumble away when she realizes she's fighting a losing battle. More infected are honing in on her position, and she needs to get away. Her feet drag across the floor as she tries to run away, and she can barely suck in enough air to keep her heart pumping. It almost feels like a panic attack, and she feels so utterly defeated because of it.

She tries to scream again, hoping to hear something back, but her throat clenches and her mouth is dry.

Running is all she can do.

She passes by the street that leads to the Ambassador and continues down Broadway.

She refuses to give up.

A few blocks down, she comes to another intersection and stops, gathering her breath when she realizes the infected are slowly ambling almost five blocks behind her.

They won't catch her if she's careful.

Glancing around, she takes in the nearest stores and restaurants, and then she sees it.

Three infected stand in front of a restaurant, slamming open fists on a sealed shut door. Almost instinctively, she heads toward them, knives at the ready, bloody and heavy and in her hands.

"Rachel!"

The infected turn toward her, mouths agape, eyes half lidded, bodies disjointed and ragged as they stumble toward her. She raises her knives.

"Quinn!"

The spark of hope inside her ignites and she nods to herself. Just three more. Just three more and she can rest.

"Stay in there!"

She takes out two in quick succession, but by the time she's come to the third, exhausted and weak, the infected grabs onto her with both hands, jaw wide as it tries to snap at her with its bloodied teeth.

With a shout, she shoves it back, only a few inches, but it manages to give her the momentum to throw her knife at it. It lands smoothly into its forehead, and she watches as it slumps lifelessly to the floor.

She stands, slack jawed, eyes pinned to the dead infected body at her feet. A few days ago, she couldn't even bring herself to put one of them down, and now she was unleashing her hatred upon them? Although they were the enemy now, they once were people just like her.

Is she a killer…?

"Quinn…?"

Running her tongue along her lips to try and soothe the chapped ache, she heads toward the door and slams on it twice with a closed fist, "Open up."

"Is it safe?"

"For God sake, Rachel, open up."

There's a small click and the door slides open effortlessly. Behind the door, Rachel Berry stands, wearing leggings and a hooded top, with hair piled up on top of her head in a messy bun.

It's a sight for sore eyes.

A living, breathing human.

"Quinn."

Before she can even register movement, Rachel rushes forward and wraps her arms tightly around Quinn's body, holding her closely, tightly, securely.

"I knew you'd come for me."

Then there's a hard shove to her chest and Quinn frowns, rubbing at her chest, "What the hell was that for?"

"Are you insane? You could have been killed! You should have stayed at the theatre."

"Oh…and the infected? You were just gonna walk out, were you?"

"They would have gone away eventually…" Rachel glances up and down the street, "I can be patient. After all, I waited for you, didn't I?"

Quinn doesn't answer, but glances inside the restaurant instead.

"Find anything?"

With a shake of her head, Rachel replies, "Nothing. All the food is spoilt and there's no water to speak of."

"I guess its good I have a few bottles." She pulls her backpack off and reaches inside for a bottle of water, handing it to Rachel. She watches as she downs almost three quarters of the bottle in only a few gulps, and shakes her head as a darkness begins to swim into her vision.

"Are you okay…?"

She feels the palm to her forehead and she shuts her eyes, revelling in the soft touch.

"Tired."

"Quinn, you're completely run down. Come on, we'll go back to the theatre and you can rest up."

Rachel wraps her arm tightly around Quinn's waist, dragging the exhausted blonde up the street.

"Wait."

"What now?"

"I have to get something."

Quinn pulls away from Rachel's arms and stumbles over to the three infected bodies she had only just put down. Rachel watches, skittishly, hands rubbing together, as Quinn pulls the knife from one of the infected's head.

"Lets go…" Quinn mumbles, walking straight past Rachel, not even looking at her.

"Quinn…"

"We'll talk when we're indoors."

With a nod, Rachel rushes up to her and they walk side by side up Broadway, together.