Title: Shards of Steel
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Universe: Zombie Cantos
Characters/Pairing: Ensemble – Reid/OC, slight Rossi/Prentiss
Genre: Horror/Drama
Summary: Things change dramatically. Moving on is the hardest thing of all.
Warnings: This chapter contains *character death*
Author's Note: Apologies for the long wait on this one. I've been working on it for a few weeks now, which is, I guess what I get for having so many in progress stories. There are about 4 parts left to this story overall, but if there's anything in particular you'd like to see written, I can fit that in as well.

…

The fields of wheat are sheening gold,
The flocks have silver fleece;
The signs are sweetly manifold
Of plenty, praise and peace.
Yet see! The sky is like a cowl
Where grimy toilers bore
The shards of steel that feed the foul
Red maw of War.

The Monster – Robert William Service

.

My home is not a place, it is people.

Lois McMaster Bujold

...

Twenty-seven months after the zombie apocalypse

Penelope Garcia has been manning the radio for a little over two years.

It's old school, compared to the technology she had been an expert with. Different, but in the end, both used for the same purpose. The transmission of information.

Knowledge is power, they say, and Garcia is in the business of making sure she has as much knowledge of possible.

Of course, getting reports on zombie activity from half a country over isn't the same as knowing who's sleeping with who in the FBI data pool, but the principle is similar.

Rescue, they learn, is not imminent.

Yes, the pandemic is isolated to the continent, but evacuating however many hundreds of thousands of people and making sure that the disease is dead and gone is no mean feat. While she hasn't been able to get through to the official military relief effort yet – she tries every damn day – there are a few key sources that she gets her intel from. A few of them are stateside – other people in other havens fighting the same fight. Sometimes there'll be news, about a particular attack, or new strain of virus, but sometimes it's just about listening to a friendly voice.

Some other sources are overseas – France and Germany and Britain and a whole slew of other places. Garcia's foreign language skills are limited to a few words of seduction in French and Italian, so she usually brings Emily in for those calls. That's how they get their "big picture" news – it's been a long time, since the start of the zombie apocalypse, but it's still something of a hot topic. The infection might be contained for now, but there's still the threat that it could spread. That the rest of the world could be next.

The man she's speaking to now calls himself Icarus. There are international laws regarding the call signs of amateur radio operators, but the apocalypse has changed a lot of things. In a way, she understands why he goes by "Icarus" and not "Ryan" or "Jim" – while the zombies aren't exactly about to intercept their radio communications, using call signs is a stark reminder that this isn't just a lazy chat on a Sunday afternoon.

Some days, though, she wishes someone would start the conversation with, 'Hey, this is Steve.' It's been so long since she's felt normalcy that sometimes it's hard to remember what it really is.

Icarus is in a high-rise apartment building, in the middle of Seattle. It's very, very different to the life in small-town Arizona, but there's not really much news he has that Garcia hasn't already heard before. Still, he's been alone for a long time, and Garcia suspects that he just enjoys their daily conversations. Usually, she keeps them moving with inconsequential stuff, stuff that doesn't really matter anymore, like books, or movies, or music. Today, though…today Icarus does have news.

'I've heard rumors,' he tells her, and Garcia is immediately intrigued, if a little skeptical. This lifestyle has turned her into much more of a cynic than she used to be. She doesn't get to speak to every operator out there, and sometimes it turns into a maddening game of Chinese Whispers; a couple of hundred Zs congregating near Gastonia goes through the network and becomes six thousand Zs marching your way, carrying chainsaws and singing Auld Lang Syne.

'What kind of rumors?' Garcia queries.

'Bandits,' he tells her, 'Moving cross-country. Highly organized, and heavily armed.'

For a moment, Garcia's confused. 'So what, they're just stealing supplies and moving on?'

There's a moment of hesitation. She knows from their conversations that Icarus had been an IT consultant before this. Like her, only nothing like her at all.

'They're massacring everything in their path,' he explains, a hint of despair in his voice. It's one thing to have zombies killing people, tearing throats out, infecting, spreading the disease. 'It's like this thing is turning them all into monsters anyway.'

Penelope Garcia knows the truth. She's seen the case reports, the crime scene photos, the victims' statements. Some people were monsters long before the zombie apocalypse ever came along. There's that difference between survival, and plain, unmistakable evil.

Some people cross the line.

…

The fire burns on the ground, and thousands of balls of flaming gas burn in the sky. It's a beautiful sight.

Astronomy isn't exactly the first subject to come to mind when people think "post-apocalyptic school" but as it turns out, it's a fairly good subject for the kids to learn, considering the circumstances. At night time, there isn't much to do – they try to conserve electricity, because even though they have their rudimentary system set up, it won't do well to overload it with lights. Some groups put on performances – plays or musicals mostly – and rehearsals take care of daytime boredom as well. All things considered, they'd found a fairly substantial number of telescopes in the houses of the dead. It feels somewhat disrespectful still, to be using their things, but in times of need, practicality takes over.

Reid had been more into quantum physics than astrophysics or cosmology, but he still knows a great deal, and there are a few amateur astronomers that pick up the slack. He knows that Emily has a fairly good knowledge of the constellations, but she doesn't interact with many people these days; not since Hotch and Morgan's death. She does her part in the school, teaching French and Spanish every Tuesday and Thursday, but it's easy to tell that her heart isn't in it. It's a skill that they might never be able to use – the rest of the world seems so much further away, now. At the very least, though, it keeps their minds active. Reid knows for a fact that learning languages other than English is important for developing critical thinking and problem solving – skills that are very important in this day and age.

'…the two stars on the top right, you can see as representing the fin of the dolphin – Alpha Delphini and Beta Delphini, otherwise known as Sualocin and Rotanev. This was something of a joke, played by Niccolò Cacciatore – backwards, they spell the Nicolaus Venator, the Latinized version of his name. Both of these are actually clusters of stars, but because they're so close together, only one light can be seen…'

The children are a variety of ages, but the kind of stuff he's teaching isn't exactly difficult. There's no age limit on the wonders of the universe.

It almost seems like everyone's out tonight, but that's an exaggeration. The area surrounding the bonfire – their eternal flame – is probably big enough, but a lot of people like to keep to themselves. So used to an individualistic society, that these communal behaviors are still foreign, even after so long. There's probably a Social Psychology paper hiding in that statement somewhere, but Reid is far too busy to be writing, these days. In any case, there's no way he could access the journal articles needed for such a venture.

'Spencer,' Jean says, in a loud whisper, a short reminder that he's rambling again. The information overload doesn't seem to bother anyone in particular, but it's getting late, and there's still that common peacetime convention of getting the kids to bed on time.

Once upon a time, the monsters came out at night.

Now, they come during the day as well.

It's not long before they pack up the telescopes, and Reid's vaguely aware of Henry telling JJ everything they learnt, in that excited eight-year-old voice of his. He doesn't seem to realize that she'd been there too, watching and listening and learning. It doesn't matter how many zombies attack, eight-year-olds have a narrow field of view. They see the world through still developing eyes – he's just moving into the concrete operational stage. Elimination of egocentrism hasn't quite fully taken hold just yet. Jack trails behind them, seemingly off in his own little world.

After about half an hour, the children and their parents have filtered away, and all that's left is half a dozen people sitting around the fire. Opposite Reid, Kevin and Garcia are curled into each other, not a word spoken between them. Sometimes, words aren't needed, but he's not sure whether he's at that stage of social interaction just yet.

Jean slides in next to him, humming, of all things, Benny and the Jets.

'I didn't know you liked Elton John,' Reid says, not quite looking at her. The fire dances in his eyes.

Jean cocks her head, frowning slightly. 'No? Huh…I thought you did.'

'…I guess I'll have to take you to a concert one day.'

'Zombie glam rock – it's the latest craze.'

For a little while, they just sit there.

'Do you want kids?' Jean asks, and Reid finds himself straightening in surprise. 'Not now,' she says, her face flushed. She backpedals quickly. 'I mean, I'm not…but…maybe one day, when this is all over…it might be nice.'

'It might be nice,' Reid echoes, but he can't hide the doubt in his voice. Not because he's not interested in children – the idea isn't horrifying. He's just not entirely sure that this will ever be over. If his child becomes ill – physically, or mentally, really, but he's thinking about one illness in particular – there are no drugs, no clinical psychologists.

All things considered, they've been lucky; there have been a few minor epidemics, about a dozen deaths from injury or illness, but no plagues, no serious dilemmas, other than the freaking zombie apocalypse.

Reid looks up as Emily and Rossi join them at the bonfire. Jean nudges his shoulder, and gives him a significant look. No words are spoken, but then sometimes words aren't needed. Reid shrugs. The universal gesture for "I don't know." In the middle of an apocalypse, with a town population of less than one hundred, relationships aren't as complicated as they could be, but they're complicated enough.

In one way or another, Rossi is a comforter, and god knows that Emily's needed comforting since Morgan and Hotch's death. They've all needed it, really, but that's beside the point. The point is, with so few people around, you start to go a little crazy with loneliness. As if there aren't enough things to be going crazy from.

A shooting star passes across the night sky, but Reid's the only one who notices.

He doesn't make a wish.

…

The next morning dawns, hot and bright – that dry, summer heat. It should be a day just like any other, only it's not.

Emily stares at the ceiling, hyperaware of the warm body pressed up against hers. It's something, but it's not something. Maybe once upon a time it could have been something more. Maybe the Earth could have been overrun by mystical unicorns that shoot cupids' arrows from their horns, instead of zombies, and maybe she might have lived happily ever after, but even before the end of the world, the thought of a happy ending had been a pipe dream.

Now? Now it feels like she's barely clinging to sanity.

'Everything okay?' Rossi asks, at which point Emily realizes that she's been staring at the ceiling, nigh-catatonic, for almost ten minutes.

The easy answer, of course, is "No, everything is not okay," but she's pretty sure that Rossi already knows that. After all, that's why he's here. The thought makes her feel just that little bit pathetic.

She ignores Rossi's somewhat crestfallen look as she pulls herself out of bed. Helping him with his morning wood isn't exactly going to make her feel any better about the situation. It's very different to the kind of relationship she'd had with Morgan, but then, back then, she still had some small amount of hope.

There's a gun sitting on the nightstand, and every single day she stares at it, wondering if maybe, today's the day.

Maybe today's the day that it all becomes too much.

In amongst all that despair, she clings to one thought: I can't do that to them. And she's had enough experience with abnormal psychology to know that that's the thought that's keeping her here.

Today's a designated showering day, so they manage to snare a couple of minutes under a spray of freezing cold water. If nothing else, it curbs Rossi's sex drive, so that's one less problem to deal with. As it turns out though, fate is quite willing to provide another.

It's midday, when the alarm is signaled.

By all technicalities, it's a call to arms – an early warning from one of the four people on sentry. Everyone readies themselves for a potentially brutal battle with a bloodthirsty horde of zombies.

What's unexpected, though, is the fact that it's not a bloodthirsty horde of zombies. It's not even one zombie. It's a human being. They loosen their trigger fingers a little, but not much, because Garcia had passed on Icarus's warning.

She's young – maybe eighteen or nineteen – and she's skinnier than Reid, which is really saying something. Her skin is marred with dirt and blood, and her eyes have a pleading look in them. It's kind of intimidating to have a couple of dozen people pointing loaded weapons at you, though, and she faints before anyone can even ask her name.

There's a flurry of movement, then; Jean and Reid carry the girl down to the makeshift hospital, while the rest of them gather for a council of war. It's their first new face in a while, and it should be a simple decision, but it's not. They've all become more than just a little bit paranoid.

'She could be one of them,' Sheriff Pegg points out. He hasn't been a sheriff in a long time, but titles stick like glue. 'Your guy.' He nods towards Garcia. 'Icarus – he said there were bandits?'

Garcia looks uncomfortable. Torn. 'He said there were rumors of bandits. I don't know if it's true. And she's only one person.'

'Could be a trap,' Rossi suggests, and there's an uncomfortable silence. The painful truth is, nobody wants it to be a trap. They've lived in their tight-knit community for a little over two years – not exactly cut off from the outside world, but sometimes it feels like they might as well be. To see a new face is something big.

'Everything's a risk, these days,' Emily points out. 'It's about making sure it's a calculated risk.'

'Is it, though?'

There's a long silence. Finally, Emily finds herself saying, 'We're not monsters. Whatever happens, we can't turn out like them. I think we need to take the chance.' It's been a long time since she's cared so much about anything.

The meeting dissolves quickly, opinions divided. Really, there's not much more they can do until the girl wakes up. According to Jean, she's unconscious from shock more than anything; there's malnutrition too, as well as a whole slew of other complications, but that's all par for the course. They can't just walk down to Walgreens for some cough medicine anymore.

'What do you think?' Reid asks; patients aside, it's just the two of them there now.

'I think that everybody's jumping to conclusions. That's not how profiling's supposed to work.'

'They're not profilers,' he points out.

Emily concedes the point. 'True. I guess you could say that we aren't profilers anymore either.'

'That's a lie.'

Emily gives a hollow laugh. 'Can take the agent from the profiling, but you can't take the profiling from the agent.' The laugh echoes into silence. 'Even if this all stopped tomorrow, things will never go back to normal, will they?'

Reid shakes his head sadly. 'No. They won't.'

Their semi-nostalgic reminiscence is cut short by a groan from the bed. Emily gives Reid a look. He jumps up to go find Jean.

'Hey, it's alright,' Emily says, in what she hopes is a soothing voice. It's a voice that she hasn't used in a long time. 'You're safe now.'

…

The young woman's name, they learn, is Charlotte. She'd been with a group of nomadic survivors up until a little over a month ago, when they'd found a particularly active zombie nest. She'd come here because it's the closest haven that she'd known about.

At least, that's what she tells them.

A look passes between the three remaining profilers of the Behavioral Analysis Unit.

'I don't think she's lying,' Rossi says eventually. There's a short silence, before Reid adds:

'Though sometimes, with sociopaths, it can be difficult to tell. Sociopaths don't typically show many features of stress, such as sweaty palms.'

'Reid,' Emily says, interrupting him. 'We know.' His face drops, crestfallen, and Emily is reminded of the Spencer Reid of two and a half years ago. The young genius who would get so eager over the smallest things. He still does, of course, be he has grown a lot, too.

'So what?' asks Sheriff Pegg. 'Your assessment is that this kid is either trustworthy, or a complete psychopath?'

'It's a little more complicated than that,' Rossi replies. 'Things have changed. People have changed.'

The old gray mare, she ain't what she used to be.

It's like a consult, only if they're wrong, then chances are, everyone could end up dead. Emily, really, really hopes they're right.

Three days later, the shit hits the fan.

Later, Emily learns that Charlotte had slipped out of her bed in the middle of the night, and killed Alice – the former nursing student who had been watching over the patients. They find her the next day, her neck snapped, and just another casualty to add to the growing list.

They were wrong.

The first sign comes in the middle of the night. Emily wakes up, and has the immediate feeling that everything is wrong. She's not sure what it is – maybe it's the hair standing on the back of her neck, maybe it's the bright lights shining through the window, maybe it's the sound of vehicles in the distance, even though they haven't driven anywhere in months.

Maybe it's the gunshots.

She grabs the gun on the nightstand. Beside her, Dave is already up, pulling on his shoes.

'What do you think?'

'I think I picked a hell of a day to quit sniffing glue.'

He gives her a look, and Emily just shrugs. Half a second later, the alarm sounds. Later, Emily learns that with three gunshot wounds to the chest, Hill had managed to crawl over and pull the switch, before taking a shot to the head.

There are a couple of shotguns in the closet – for emergencies – but only a dozen or so shells. As comfortable as the sweats she'd worn to bed are, they're not much in the way of protection against zombie teeth, and she'd rather take a few extra seconds to get ready, than die because she's only wearing a tank top. She finds the motorcycle leathers that she'd found at a store a few towns away.

Later – or rather, sooner – Emily knows for sure that they're not dealing with zombies at all.

Kevlar would have probably been better. Just like old times.

She opens the door and frowns.

There are two SUVs just down the street, their headlights ridiculously bright. She lifts her weapon, scanning the street. The first bullet slams into the wooden door frame, and the second whizzes over her head, just seconds after she's ducked to the ground.

'Fuck.' She drops even further and slithers backwards before slamming the door shut – it won't be much protection against bullets, but it's better than nothing.

'You okay?' Rossi asks, hugging the ground.

'Yeah,' she breathes, edging towards the window. Pulling the curtain back slightly, she assesses the situation outside. She can see three of them – all armed heavily. 'I guess they're the bandits Garcia warned us about.'

Neither of them mentions how this happened, but they both already know.

'We need to get out of here,' Rossi says, 'If we stay pinned down, we're dead.'

Emily nods. Like fish in a barrel. 'They don't know there are two of us. If I draw their fire, can you take them out?'

He doesn't seem particularly happy about that idea, but they've already seen her, and if he's the one that walks out that door, then they'll know that something is wrong.

'We'll need to open the window then,' is all he says.

As it turns out, they don't, because the second Emily pulls the curtains back, the whole damn thing shatters, sending a cascade of broken glass over them. She doesn't look back, but she knows there are two bullets lodged in the wall behind her.

Her ears ring.

'Good luck,' Rossi says, giving her a quick kiss. It feels kind of weird, but she doesn't press the issue. After all chances are she could be dead in thirty seconds. Maybe a little part of her wants to be slow on the trigger finger, and let the bullets tear through her body. At least it'll be quick.

Going through the motions.

She opens the door slowly, making sure that they see her. Another two bullets slam into the door, and Emily moves to the side, firing twice. She uses a pole for cover, but it barely covers a third of her. The point is to distract them long enough for Dave to get his shots off. She turns again, firing, and one of them takes a shot to the chest, but they're not exactly Stormtroopers either, and she feels the burning pain as a hunk of lead buries itself in her shoulder.

It's peripheral, and it's a through and through, which is good, because this gunfight has only just started.

It is her right arm though, which really sucks, because her left-handed aim really sucks.

Before the zombie apocalypse, they'd all taken time at the range practicing with their non-dominant hands. It doesn't change the fact that, even without the slow blood loss, Emily couldn't hit a fricking skyscraper at twenty paces. Maybe that's an exaggeration, but even with the adrenaline pumping, her next three shots miss.

Apparently Rossi has better luck though, because after a minute, the shots stop. At least the ones nearby do. Through a haze of pain, Emily can still hear more gunfire in the distance, and she takes a split second to hope – to pray? – that the rest of the team make it out alive. Maybe that's a little selfish of her, but the team is family.

A ridiculous, kind of dysfunctional, zombie-hunting family.

'You okay?' Rossi asks, and Emily starts, realizing that he's standing right next to her.

Dumb, Emily.

'You're hit,' he adds, as though she hadn't noticed.

She shakes her head, dismissing the problem. 'Just a graze.'

He gives her a look – that look that is so very Rossi that says "I know you're bullshitting me, but I'm not going to call you out on it." She's grateful for it. There's too much at stake for him to start getting all concerned over nothing.

'We need to find cover,' Emily says, hearing the sound of a door opening behind her. Her heart's beating like a jackhammer, and she turns, gun in hand, her finger pressed so tightly against the trigger.

It's JJ.

She almost shot JJ, right in front of Henry and Jack. If that's not a sign that everything's gone to hell, then she doesn't know what is.

JJ has her own weapon out, unperturbed by Emily's near trigger-happiness.

'Zombies?'

Emily shakes her head. 'Humans.'

JJ's eyes widen at that, and Henry lets out a small gasp. It's a different threat. Not the threat they're prepared to deal with.

'Guess we should have built those tunnels, huh,' Emily adds, but she's not laughing.

'You need to get the kids out of here,' Rossi tells JJ, and she nods, her skin deathly pale. They don't have a contingency plan for human attacks, but there's enough gunfire around them that it might afford a distraction. If that proves too hot, though, there are bolt-holes – places to hide out until the action has died down. They're a safe haven, right to the point where they become a death trap.

'Good luck,' Emily says, her voice hollow. To Rossi, she says, 'Where to?'

'Police station,' he says, and Emily nods in agreement. It's the most likely place for a showdown, if they're actually going to have one.

And they do.

They run like hell, zigzagging as the bullets fly around them. By some miracle, they're not hit, and Rossi knocks on the door like a madman. A second later, they're both inside, breathing heavily, but still alive.

This is where most people had rushed to, a few with bullet wounds, a few with white sheets pulled over their bodies. The rest are probably locked inside their homes, doors barred, waiting for it all to end. They're the ones who – even after the zombies came – had never picked up a gun. They're the ones who have been working on their rudimentary electrical system, or repairing damaged houses.

'How many do we have?' Rossi asks, and Emily's vaguely aware of someone checking over her shoulder. She tries to ignore it.

'At least a dozen,' Reid says. 'Well-trained and ruthless.'

'Charlotte?' Emily asks. 'She…?' She can't quite bring herself to say the words out loud.

'She brought them here,' Pegg confirms, and his voice sounds bitter, unsurprisingly. 'She killed the night sentries, and she contacted them.'

There's a long, pained silence. They'd taken a risk, and it had blown up in their faces. Monumentally. Already, people are dead.

'We need to fight this out,' Kevin says. He and Garcia are huddled in the corner of the room; Garcia has a gun in her hand, and doesn't look particularly happy about it. Nobody disagrees.

Emily follows Rossi up to the roof of the station, a couple of others joining them. They keep their cover at first, because there are at least two bandits in sniper positions. She tries not to look at the dead bodies already there.

There are two loud cracks, and they lose a bad guy and a good guy, almost simultaneously. The good guy is Garth, a mechanic who has been in the thick of it for a long time. He's a nice guy, but there's no time to mourn. Rossi fires two shots in the direction of the second sniper, and there is definitely something to be said about having thirty years worth of firearms experience.

But even someone with thirty years worth of firearms experience can get shot in the back.

They hadn't cleared the roof.

They hadn't cleared the fucking roof.

Emily fires half a dozen bullets into the chest of the woman that had betrayed them, but it's not enough to wipe her mind of the sight of David Rossi falling to the ground. She probably would have fired more, only her clip is empty.

She drops by his side, ignoring the still stinging pain in her right arm. His eyes are wide open, and the breaths come in short gasps. Blood bubbles from his lip.

'Sorry,' he manages, and Emily can feel the tears running down her face.

'Don't you dare say that. You aren't going to die on me.' The words fall on the ears of a dead man. She brushes his eyes shut, and bites back the anger, the pain, the sadness.

Why is this happening?

The team had spent every waking hour of their lives, fending off the darkness, only to be defeated by an even greater foe. Hotch and Morgan and Rossi…they had sacrificed everything to make the world a better place, and their fate was death.

If Emily hadn't already been questioning her faith, then the absurdity – the sheer fucking injustice – of it all would have done that.

And it's not over yet.

Maybe in the morning, they'll all be dead. Maybe someone will toss a grenade or two into the police station, and they'll all die in a fiery explosion. Maybe they'll find JJ and Henry and Jack and shoot them where they stand. Maybe it's all over.

But it's not.

They survive.

If survival is the word you could use to describe it. They're alive, and they won, but there are a lot of people dead. Rossi is dead. But then, so are the bad guys.

Garcia cries, and Kevin comforts her. Reid excuses himself, with Jean following after him. JJ bites her lip.

'Some day, huh?'

'Yeah.'

But the day isn't over yet.

The fire burns bigger and brighter than it ever has before. Bodies are a hell of a fuel source.

The town feels so much bigger, so much emptier now, and Emily knows it's only a matter of time before they have to leave. Their incentive for that comes almost a week later, when Reid comes to find her in the library.

'Garcia wants you,' he says, an unreadable expression on his face. She hasn't seen him cry, and she isn't sure what to think about that.

Garcia, as it turns out, has been on the radio again. 'I finally managed to get through to the relief effort,' she says, voice tinged with pride and sadness simultaneously. Emily knows what she must be thinking – a week too late.

'That's great,' Emily smiles, and it's a genuine smile, if besmirched by that same sadness. 'What did they say?'

'Maybe you want to talk to her yourself,' Garcia pats her on the shoulder – her good shoulder – and walks out. Emily's a little confused, but sits down, and sets herself up. She doesn't have as much practice at this as Garcia, but she knows what she's doing.

'Hello?' she asks in a shaky voice. It's not really her voice at all.

'Emily?' is the reply, and there's no mistaking that voice.

'Mom?' Her voice is choked with tears, and usually she doesn't like showing so much emotion when she's talking to her mother, but damned if she doesn't care. 'Oh my God.'

'Are you alright, Emily?'

It's a hell of a question.