Synopsis: Some pockets of humanity still remain, and Quinn has found herself among familiar faces in post-apocalyptic New York City. Rubber Duck is still missing, but the Recon group continues to comb the streets for her. It has been 53 days since The Last Day.

Author's Note: Holy cow, I seriously wasn't expecting such a huge response. I woke up from a nap this afternoon with 74 emails telling me people had subscribed to the story. Thank you so much, from the bottom of my heart, and I am so glad you're all enjoying it. I still don't know how long this will be. Since the progress moves according to days, it's a little harder to map out. (Also I'll be responding individually via PM to your awesome reviews so as not to take up space in the installments, I hope that's okay. If you guys don't like that, let me know and I'll go back to my old format!)

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Day 55

Santana had finally allowed Quinn to do something other than wash clothing. Although she'd been a little disappointed that she wouldn't be in Rachel's company — to which she'd grown so accustomed in the days she'd been there — she was glad to stretch her legs a little. Having spent over a month travelling every day being cooped up and forced to rest was not something she was particularly fond of.

The morning of day 55 she was stretched out on her cot re-reading her survival manual, when she felt something land on her stomach. The blonde shot up, nearly toppled off the rickety cot, and realized a lightweight vest had been thrown at her. Santana stood in full Army fatigues, hair tied back and AK-47 strapped to her back. She looked worn, aged slightly, and tired. They had all aged so very much. Quinn supposed the apocalypse did that to people. Maybe the stress of survival in an inhospitable world had been the bane of ancient people — she'd read somewhere that often the life-expectancy wasn't more than 50 years old.

They were all 21, almost halfway there. Nobody was older than that, except an elderly gentleman who called himself Oliver and talked about the old days in the Louisiana bayou. They were a long way from the bayou.

"We still haven't found her," Santana's voice sounded ragged, and judging from the bags under her eyes she hadn't slept much at all. Without Brittany she was listless — even her commands around base didn't sound firm. Quinn could see the hope draining from Santana's eyes. "Suit up. This stuff will protect you. We don't have enough ammo to spare or really another weapon, but if you stay behind me then we should be alright."

Quinn nodded, standing and zipping on the lightweight vest and pulling her sweatshirt over it. It seemed silly, dressing like she was going for a stroll in the park — jeans and a hoodie. As if they'd just be going to Central Park. With a bulletproof vest. After the world had ended.

Santana waited silently, but she indicated another presence by looking up. Rachel stood with dry clothes in her arms, big brown eyes looking over Quinn and then Santana. Those soft brown eyes were full of concern, real concern, the kind you knew to have when someone you cared about was going out to possibly die on a rescue mission.

"No," Rachel spoke firmly and shook her head. "No, you can't — " she seemed to disregard Santana's authority as she dropped the clothes and stepped forward. Quinn was taken by surprise when the girl nearly toppled her over, arms firmly wrapped around her waist. The shorter girl was shaking her head, pressing her forehead to Quinn's collarbone.

Santana looked just as confused as Quinn felt, "We need to find Britt."

"Quinn has no military training whatsoever!" Rachel's words burst from her violently, and she let go of Quinn but did not move back in the slightest. Her hand was gripping Quinn's elbow as if to root her to the spot, prevent her from going. "You do! You've trained the others! You told me that we wouldn't put each other in danger — that's why we have ranks, positions, jobs!" Her voice was unnecessarily loud. It was this loudness that made Quinn aware that they never really spoke loudly anymore, the danger of it was like stepping out onto the street and calling for the bandits by name. "You can't risk Quinn! You can't!" Rachel spoke as if she was not there.

"I can handle myself, I got here all on my own, Rachel," Quinn insisted, confused. Santana looked stunned, as if Rachel had not spoken this way to her since they'd banded together to survive. A few straggling members of the Recon group were waiting around the edges of the sleeping area, afraid to interfere in the altercation.

"No! You don't know what they're like, what they could do to you. Brittany went missing but you can't just expect Quinn to risk her life like that."

"What do you expect me to do, Berry?" Santana all but shouted, the muscles in her neck straining as Quinn was shoved backward. "I'm running low on energy and I need someone to watch my back. We need to find her because I can't — " Santana gasped as one would as a fist hit them in the gut, her voice lowering and cracking. It was a desperate sound, and it broke Quinn's heart, " — I can't let her just disappear."

Rachel swallowed visibly, and Quinn felt awkward standing near them as they argued for her safety or risk. Her eyes were still wide and afraid.

"Britt would do it for us," Quinn spoke up for the first time, gently pressing her hand to Santana's shoulder and moving between them. She couldn't understand why Rachel was so insistent. It would get dark fast and they needed to do what they could.

Rachel went silent and nodded, cast her eyes to the ground. Awkwardly, Quinn slipped her arms around the brunette and hugged her.

"Please come back," Rachel whispered against her chest.

Confusedly, Quinn nodded. "Yeah," she tried not to betray the fact that Rachel's reaction was perplexing. They had never been close. Was it perhaps the bond of survivors, a need not to be alone in the world of ghosts?

Rachel detached, but watched Quinn every step of the way.

She noticed no one ever said goodbye. It was too final.

Day 56

They were camped out approximately five miles from base. The Recon group consisted of Santana (Razorblade, as her inferiors called her), Quinn (Tubbers, as they'd picked up on Santana's particular nomenclature), Jupiter, Ulysses, Dean, and a scrappy girl they called Velma. The fire between them crackled, and they all ate silently from the rations of dehydrated meat. They had yet to find any sign of Britt since Santana stumbled upon another graffiti marking inside a warehouse — a duck. The Latina had nearly burst into tears at the sight of it, but none of her inferiors would have noticed it. Only Quinn, with years of experience and intimate knowledge of Santana, could see the tears forming in her eyes. Santana was hard as steel, a tool of survival. Inside, she was still the same. Inside, she was desperately hoping the love of her life was still alive.

It was dark, and Quinn missed the way Rachel hummed while she was scrubbing laundry. Idly, she was humming the complimentary bars she'd composed when she used to hear Rachel sing "Defying Gravity" in her head.

"Whatever happened to Hummel?" Quinn spoke softly, eyes lingering on Santana.

The Latina looked distant, her eyes in some far off nightmare where they would not find Brittany. "Hm?"

"Kurt. I never knew what happened to him after high school."

Santana nodded in acknowledgement, "He lived in New York for a while. He was a waiter at a scene bar and he auditioned with Rachel at a few off-Broadway plays."

Quinn wondered if it was something they just didn't talk about — whether or not anyone was alive.

"It didn't work out for him. He moved to California to pursue an acting career. I think he was living with Puck and Finn last time we talked to him." Santana recounted the memories distantly. It was an entirely different lifetime, a different existence.

They were just kids back then. It seemed all so innocent. Quinn marveled at the hardness of her spirit, the callouses on her hands. A life earned. A life of survival. Somehow it was fulfilling, however fulfilling it was possible to be.

###

Quinn was on watch in the black of night. Embers from the fire were so dim that she strained to see anything. Santana had instructed her to listen. Just listen. The boy named Jupiter was awake with her — back to back is how they sat, covering the most visual area however black it was. His dark skin made Quinn's look like it glowed in the dark.

They heard stirrings distantly in Jupiter's direction, and it happened so suddenly Quinn barely registered the releasing of Jupiter's safety on his gun.

"Don't move!"

It was a gruff voice, unfamiliar and unfriendly. Quinn was on her feet, and an instant afterward Santana was up and the heaviness of her AK-47 was resting near Quinn's arm.

"You kiddies seem a little lost," another voice came from the opposite direction. The shuffling of ground beneath feet indicated to Quinn's inexperienced ears that they were surrounded. "Fresh faces."

"Fresh meat," another voice hissed. Different. Higher-pitched and potentially female.

An answering grunt came near Quinn's face, "Look, another blonde. Just like that tight little thing — " the cold metal of a blade touched Quinn's cheek and all her instincts told her to run.

Santana reacted quicker than Quinn could reasonably register. Shots were fired and the man holding a knife to her face fell to the ground, silenced permanently by a little piece of metal. Quinn was quivering. She felt like a liability, a danger. She couldn't fight. She didn't know how.

Footsteps scattered, but Santana flicked on the light strapped to her vest and illuminated the area. Quinn was amazed at how fast she moved. Santana's arm shot out, and her firm grip twisted the arm of one of the bandits. He was a brick-house, but he whimpered in a small voice and the sickening sound of bones breaking caused Quinn to draw in her breath. Jupiter was standing in front of her, dark muscular figure and dreads all ready for action, protecting her from harm. Santana was still moving. She'd kicked the thug's feet out from under him, swept him to the ground. A knee driven straight into his spine, she grunted as she spoke. "Now," her voice was like a purr, her posture catlike as she stroked the thug's broken arm. "You're going to tell me where you have that blonde your buddy spoke about, and you're going to help me get her."

"Fuck uff — " he cursed through his pain, the wetness of his voice making Quinn's skin crawl. "Fuckin' kids, rats, vermin, infestin' the city and — "

Santana didn't give him a chance. With her free hand she pressed a blade to the base of his spine, "I push this in just a little bit and you're done. Not only will you be unable to move but I'm pretty sure the fucking carrion will eat whatever's left of your miserable blubber."

So this was warfare. This was survival.

"Where — " the blade pressed against him a little more " — is she?" Santana purred, dangerous and seductive.

"Woolworth."

Woolworth was at one time one of the tallest skyscrapers in New York City. A diamond in the skyline. It was a half-day's walk from where they were, according to Jupiter.

Santana rewarded the thug by slamming the butt of her AK-47 into the back of his head. She did not flinch at the brutality, but Quinn did.

Day 57

They moved at first light, silent and determined. Quinn felt the scars of survival toughening her skin, hardening her gaze. She was not armed, but Jupiter had been kind enough to show her a few ways to avoid being killed. It was a little bit like Sue Sylvester's warnings about the way humanity would be. She'd always been a believer in the apocalypse, and Quinn hated that she'd been right.

Santana lead them through a maze of rusting vehicles and trees. Roots had grown around cars, encased them like Mother Nature's coffins, like Osiris entrapped in the tree. The world was a vision, collision of nature and man. Man was impermanent, nature was not. Birds did not sing, despite the towering forest amid old skyscrapers and fallen buildings.

They found Woolworth buried inside a giant oak, the gnarled branches squared unnaturally at the sides. There was no indication of human occupation, and Quinn hoped that man had not been lying. She wanted to find Brittany, and she wanted to go back to base. Radio silence was the order — it was too dangerous to call back to base this close to enemy territory.

Santana stopped the Recon team at the side of the building, and disappeared around the front. Quinn didn't like her running off on her own, but her military experience was such that she wasn't likely to let herself get taken as well. It took a minute or so before she returned, having smashed a window in as silently as possible. She ushered the team through and climbed in after. They spread out in formation, predators, a pack. Quinn stayed close behind Jupiter, shadowed his posturing and kept alert.

She was, surprisingly, the first to spot an inconspicuous entrance. Through slats in the floor, light filtered through and there appeared to be a makeshift ladder. She tugged the back of Jupiter's jacket and indicated what she'd seen. Like an amorphous organism, the Recon team slipped down.

Old mattresses and couches, poorly maintained, were spread around a neighboring cubby-hole. The bandits were in there, laughing roughly at something, and Santana nearly gave them away when she saw Britt — she'd dodged forward only to be caught by Velma. The young girl pushed Santana down by the shoulders and slipped in front of her. For survivalists, the bandits had no sense of awareness. There were no guards. Velma opened fire — a little girl with a Glock — and took down three men before the could blink. Efficiently the Recon team followed and Santana took out two more before getting to Britt. She was tied to a wall, wrists bound so tight Quinn could see the harsh marks. She was also unconscious.

Quinn took leave of Jupiter's shadow, moved through the alarmed mob of bandits and with Santana began to cut Brittany loose. Santana was whispering to Brittany despite her unconsciousness.

"Hey Duckie," she murmured sweetly, petted Brittany's hair. The Recon team had eliminated or disabled all of the bandits within a matter of minutes, and efficient killing machine. "Duckie, we got you. I found you, Duckie," Santana cradled Brittany's limp body in her arms, and Quinn supported them both.

She helped Santana lift Brittany through the entrance, and pressed through herself.

The amorphous organism that was Recon moved back through the foreboding city, its leader finally human again as she cradled her lifeline. Quinn trailed nearby, and thought what an amazing thing love was, to survive in such a hostile world.

Day 60

It was easier getting home, though they moved only in daylight. It was getting hotter by the day, and the layers of protection they wore seemed unsettled on their shoulders. They arrived just in time for dinner, but Quinn was so tired that she wasn't particularly hungry. She'd gotten her fill of jerky during the day and her mind was foggy with exhaustion. They'd been on the move for four days, and the violence she'd witnessed had taken a heavy toll on her heart. She didn't know if she could adjust to this.

It wasn't until Rachel crashed into her that she remembered she had waited for her. Her arms folded around the girl and Quinn closed her eyes, breathed in the familiar scent. A ghost of lavender. Quinn wondered how Rachel managed to smell so nice without perfume. Her body was tired, and she felt as if she was perhaps leaning too much on Rachel, but the brunette was guiding her to the sleeping area.

She helped Quinn into her cot, and the blonde fell asleep with Rachel clutching her hand, and vaguely recognized that she was mumbling something to the brunette before she passed out.

Day 61

When Quinn awoke, Rachel's cot was moved directly beside hers and the brunette was sleeping soundly facing her. Her hand was hanging limply between their cots as if she'd tried holding on til the very last moment. Quinn could see the first hints of daylight through the holes in the brick wall, and her muscles ached. She wanted to tell Rachel that she didn't like this world, she didn't like seeing people die, nor did she like seeing her best friend killing people and knocking them out with military-issued weapons. She wanted it all to be a dream.

The brunette stirred the second Quinn's cot squeaked, and she sat straight up. "Whu — Quinn, ok?" Her words were choppy. Quinn laughed a little and it sounded again unfamiliar to her. Like an orchestral concert in the middle of Times Square, it was out of place.

"I'm okay," Quinn's voice was cracked, and she realized she was extremely thirsty. She shifted, looked for her canteen, and found it. Grateful for its fullness, she uncapped it and drank so much that she felt full.

Rachel was sleepily watching her, sitting up. "You guys were gone so long," she murmured. What perplexed Quinn was that Rachel did not seem to be as relieved to see Brittany and Santana as she had been to see Quinn. She did not hug Santana nearly so often. Quinn didn't ask why. Quietly, she slipped her hand into Rachel's and closed her eyes. She slept while Rachel stroked her thumb across her palm.

Day 63

Santana and Brittany didn't resurface for a few days. The Latina was only in and out of the kitchen to get fresh rags to tend to Brittany's wounds and ask Rachel for medical advice. She wouldn't let anyone near Brittany. She 'didn't want anyone disturbing Duckie.'

Day 63 was also the first day that Quinn heard Rachel sing. She'd been boiling some water for fresh stew (a rare treat — they did their best to keep the more sustainable foods as daily rations instead of having frequent feasts) and the first few lines.

The first few lines of Defying Gravity graced Quinn's ears, and she stopped what she was doing to listen. Every muscle in her body loosened, and she closed her eyes. Unknowingly, she'd begun to hum in her 'tremulous bass alto' the bars she'd come up with to match Rachel's voice. Before she knew it they were singing together, quietly, as if they always had.

The sound of singing was so refreshing that even Apollo stopped scowling to listen to them both. Rachel had moved the cast-iron stew pot nearer to Quinn's fire, placing it over the flames and kneeling before the heat. Quinn glanced down and saw the ghost of that famous Rachel Berry smile. It was a quiet, lopsided smirk.

Quinn noticed the way Rachel's hair still somehow looked soft, shining against the flames, and the way she still trimmed her bangs in an even line. How had she maintained such beauty in such a hostile landscape? She caught herself staring instead of humming now, and Rachel looked up in time to catch her doing so. Quinn offered a silent smile, felt the warmth of something other than fire as they let the gaze linger between them.

It was nice to see Rachel smile. And it was nice to feel herself smiling in return. Whether it was the firelight or the comfort of something more, Quinn felt content for the first time in 63 days.

###

Later that night, when it was dark and only the whispers of a few of the survivors, Quinn felt Rachel's cot shift in the space next to hers. Without looking over, she could feel Rachel's eyes on her. Her own hands were folded over her stomach and she was looking out at the pitch black sky through holes in the roof. She missed the sight of stars and constellations blinking back at her. She wondered if the sky would ever clear.

"What was that you were humming earlier?" Rachel's whisper was hesitant. They kept to their own spaces, but Quinn could feel her warmth like a low-power radiator beside her.

"Something I came up with. I used to hear you singing that song sometimes in my head. You've always been out of my vocal range, but I used to hum background to what I could hear." It sounded crazy in a way, voices in her head. Singing in her head.

"Really?"

Quinn smiled. Rachel sounded like that hopeful girl in high school, the one who'd asked the very same question when Quinn said they were friends. She could still see Rachel then, books clutched in her arms, argyle sweater and a pleated skirt. They both looked young in her memory. "Yes, really."

She'd been travelling to Rachel. She wanted to tell her that. Instead she let Rachel reach over and grasp her hand, press it to her face. She could feel Rachel's eyes close near her hand, could hear the small intake of breath. "I worried that you weren't alive."

It felt nice.

"Do you think we would have … " Quinn didn't know how to ask. "Do you think if the world hadn't ended, we'd be in cots side-by-side?"

Rachel was still clutching her hand tightly. "It doesn't really matter, does it?"

"Why did we fight each other so much?"

"I don't know."

"Me either."

Quinn fell asleep for a second time since the Last Day with Rachel Berry holding her hand, and found herself dreaming of McKinley High's Glee Club at Nationals, only the duet wasn't for Finn and Rachel or herself and Sam. It was Rachel and Quinn, singing "What is This Feeling?" and dancing in spirals around one another like sprites in a Shakespearean play.

Day 70

The group of survivors were preparing to take in more people. They'd received radio contact from the colony on Manhattan Island that their rations were running low and they had yet to find untainted soil to begin some form of agriculture.

Santana had reluctantly accepted the proposition to take in 15 new people. That meant less rations for everyone else and the possibility of relocation to a more fertile area eventually. The Latina hadn't been overly happy about it, but Brittany had talked her into it. Always the soft of heart, Duckie was the advocate for welcoming anyone into their ranks. Santana gave in to her every whim, too in love with her and too grateful that she was alive to say no.

It was a scramble, rearranging sleeping places and building or repairing cots. While the building they occupied was very large, it wasn't a good idea to have everyone spread out across an entire building. If they were raided by anyone else, there would be no way to be alerted without significant time lapse in between attack and response time.

Cramped living space was the sacrifice for safety. Quinn was helping Rachel erect a privacy wall for the sleeping area and the changing areas, separated by gender on either side of the sleeping area. There had been no extraneous affection since the 63rd night after the apocalypse. Only exchanged glances. It seemed the survivors had a tendency to pair off, but Quinn had to admit that the more she dwelt on past interaction and her gravitation toward New York, it seemed a little more than survival-bonding.

It didn't take them long to erect the privacy walls, and Rachel clapped her hands together victoriously as she admired their work. She smiled, a little more brightly than normal. "It'll be nice to have more faces around here, new faces."

"Even if it means less food," Santana came strolling in, Brittany's hand laced with her own. "It's a sacrifice but maybe we'll be able to put our heads together and figure out where we might be able to find more resources. The city is a wasteland. We'd be better off finding out if some of the rural areas are more liveable."

"Mass migration," Quinn inquired with an arch of her eyebrow, "It'd be hard to organize — "

"But necessary if we're going to be running low on rations. Apollo says we'll only have another 60 days of rations with the extra population."

Quinn nodded, and Rachel looked between them contemplatively. "It wouldn't be that hard to organize," the diva's voice was soft, and she was toying with the ends of her hair. "The Recon team could act as … security, help keep everyone organized, keep an eye on everyone."

"There's always the danger of bandits," Brittany spoke next, glanced lovingly at Santana as she saw a flicker of pain in her lover's eyes. "We should be able to protect the majority, though. Maybe all of them if we add a little more security."

###

By the day's end, Quinn was tired and sitting by the fire alone. She was staring into the flames as if to divine a future full of hope, fresh meals, and comfortable homes. It seemed so impossible, so far away.

"Can I sit?" Rachel's voice greeted her, and she was standing demurely by the fire's edge. Quinn scoffed.

"You have to ask?"

Rachel gave a lopsided smile and sat hesitantly next to Quinn. Her hands were folded in her lap and Quinn looked over at her, examining her posturing as if to decipher what the cause was for her nervousness. The former diva noticed Quinn watching her and tucked her brown hair behind her ear, ducked her head forward. "When it happened, even before," Rachel began. Her voice was as hesitant as Quinn had ever heard it. She regarded Rachel with curiosity, respectfully watching her hands instead of her face. "I wanted to contact you. I wanted to … clear the air. I wanted us to … I guess, reconnect. I always felt like we could have been — " Rachel hesitated, looked up. Quinn felt her searching her face, felt Rachel's eyes probing, worrying over her features for any sign of what she perceived to be rejection. " — so much more. I guess it's all ridiculous now. Matters like that are so juvenile now. The world, humanity, it's all fallen apart and it seems silly to even consider such problems."

Quinn heard the hopeful tone of her voice and she felt drawn to Rachel's expression like a magnet, felt some form of nerves growing in her stomach. The blonde realized she was fidgeting, and sat on her hands. "It's not completely juvenile. To want to think about normal things. It's comforting, to think that some semblance of normalcy can continue," Quinn spoke softly, stared at her feet.

Rachel was staring at her. She could feel the tension in the air, and without seeing, knew that Rachel's lips were parting hopefully with unspoken words before sucking on itself uncertainly. "I don't know about normalcy but … something akin to it." Rachel murmured. She seemed to be losing her courage.

Quinn didn't move. She didn't know if she wanted this attachment, wanted to voice what had maybe been there all along. She didn't want something to lose. She felt Rachel's hand cover her arm, urging Quinn's hands from beneath her thighs in order to hold her hand in her lap. Quinn stared at their hands for a long time. Could this be enough? Should there be more? Was it ridiculous, seeking out such attachment in a world that would likely take their lives early?

Rachel was waiting for an answer, waiting for the signal, the go-ahead. Quinn didn't know if she could give it to her. She waited a long time for Quinn to say something, but Quinn couldn't tell her she was petrified of getting attached and losing her somehow to this cruel, unfamiliar world. This alien environment.

After a while, Rachel leaned forward, pressed her lips to Quinn's cheek lingeringly, wrapped her arms around her neck. "Goodnight, Quinn." The timbre of sadness hurt Quinn's heart. She let go of Rachel's hand reluctantly as she stood.

Quinn sat beside the fire a long time that night.