A/N: Okay, here's the deal. For some reason, writing this story is more fun than writing the casefic. I know, you all hate me for starting and stopping the What If story, but please, I have really no control on what my muse spurs me to write. I know if I don't write this story down when I have the chance, it'll be lost to me forever! I'll try to update What If for real soon, but no guarantees.
Now this chapter is really long, so prepare yourself. It is a lot of descriptive detail, which may make it a tad difficult to get through, but I assure you that the next chapter (which has already been started) has a lot more dialogue and a lot more human interaction. This chapter is pretty much still setting the scene. This is definitely one of the more complex fics I've written.
Also, in the next couple chapters or so, keep an eye out for familiar faces! I'm having fun weaving this particularly dark and gloomy loom, in case you havent noticed.
Well, I think this will be my last update before the new season starts, so... Happy Watching! (I'm interested to see how they resolve the cliffie of the finale. Granted, I'd be more excited if they made ZIBBS canon rather than TIVA, but hey, that's why I'm not one of TPTB!)
Let me know how you like this chapter!
The Patrol began to move across the road to the next section of cover, staying in pairs and making 360-degree visual sweeps every couple of steps. It was a familiar routine, one enacted each time they went out beyond the Perimeter. The Patrol was well acquainted with the route back to the shipyard where the Base was located, and had mapped out multiple secondary routes should they Encounter trouble, as well as a rally point to use if they got separated. As soon as the buildings thinned out, they would fall into a wedge formation. It was safer; though each of the Patrollers had some sort of weapon, only two carried firearms. These two were posted at the front and right corners of the wedge, maximizing the use of their firepower. They served as scouts as well, allowing the Patrol to pass through the area more efficiently. Speed was of the essence now, more so than it had been on the way out. They now had supplies, which made them a target, and they had to be certain no one followed them back to the docks.
Their practiced vigilance paid off, however, and they traveled the six miles back to Base without encountering a single soul. The salty fragrance of the sea teased their senses as they approached the shipyard, a welcome relief from the city's dank stench of trash and human waste. The sky was just turning violet when the Patrol reached a dull, but sturdy, chain link fence. Beyond the fence were rows upon rows of metal shipping containers, leftover from the days before the Incident. Nestled in the midst of the sea of containers was a large Warehouse, most likely used as the main indoor staging facility for unloading and readying the containers' cargo for transport, back when the shipyard had still been operational. However, the shipping industry had virtually disappeared overnight, leaving the port and its facilities to the use of whoever happened upon it.
The Patrol halted in front of the fence, and the Voice stepped to the front before stretching his arms to the sky and crossing them once, twice, three times. Then his right fist came to rest over his heart. The show was not for the patrol's benefit; it was for the Angels—snipers posted out of sight on top of the stacks of shipping containers who were observing through their scopes. The motions were code, partly for identification, partly to convey that no followers had been detected on the way home. A moment later, a man approached the other side of the improvised gate—a section of gate detached on one side and secured by a length of chain and a padlock. A ring of keys jingled in his hand. Without a word, the padlock was unlocked and the chain removed. The sentry hoisted the loose section of fence and walked it sideways, allowing the patrol access to the shipyard. Had they attempted to enter without the Voice's motions and without the aid of a key, the Angels would have taken them all out, one by one, from 300 meters away.
As soon as the Patrol had passed through the gate, the fence was re-secured, and they immediately made their way into the Maze of shipping containers that lay between them and the Warehouse. And a Maze it was. Only one route led to their intended destination. Any deviation led to a seemingly endless number of dead ends. It was an added defense; with limited firepower, the shipping containers had been rearranged to confuse and deter any stranger who made it past the Perimeter.
First left, second right. One, two, three red containers, then another left. Continue straight until a right at the Globo-Ship logo. Such was the routine. Despite there being less need for stealth inside the Perimeter, the Patrol continued to travel in silence. They were all exhausted, the result of nine hours' worth of foraging after putting in twelve hours of work the day before. Nerves were also frayed; they had all learned months ago that the less conversation attempted in the after-hours of a Patrol, the less friction would develop between them. As they got closer to their destination, the sun continued to rise, turning the sky from a violet to a rosy pink. After one last right turn, they were out.
The tall structure of the Warehouse stood before them, stark and formidable amid the stacks of rusty crates. A smaller shack sat adjacent to the Warehouse—used to house what few weapons they had managed to acquire, with two Guards posted at all times to ensure they weren't stolen. Halfway to the roof of the Warehouse an expanse of windows began, streaked with years of dirt and grime. Without pause, the Patrol marched to the Warehouse door, each knowing the others were eager to set down their packs and get some sleep.
In the stillness of the maze, the sound of movement and voices from within could be clearly heard as they neared the structure. Like every dawn, the Residents of the Warehouse were already up and readying themselves for the day ahead. After going sunset to sunrise in silence, often without encountering any sign of life besides themselves, the Patrol was always glad to hear the sounds of life upon its return.
Passing through a heavy wooden door, the Patrol entered the Warehouse. They were immediately plunged into musty shadow as the faint rays of the newly risen sun disappeared, effectively blocked by the grime that covered the windows. To compensate, the murky interior was lit by a combination of flaming torches and electric lanterns. The result was enough to illuminate the cluttered space so that the Residents could go about their business.
The Warehouse was a single large room, an open space made claustrophobic by stacks of shipping containers standing in long rows. Some stood five or six containers high, creating an apartment-like arrangement. But despite the cramped conditions the Residents utilized, they still managed to create an atmosphere of trust and acceptance. The doors to each of the containers were open, leaving their interiors open to the public eye.
Each container had blankets or sleeping bags strewn across the floor—a few even had ragged mattresses. Overturned milk-crates served as small tables; some were home to candles, now extinguished, or small Coleman lanterns. Evidence of breakfast—opened cans and ripped cardboard boxes littered some milk-crates, whose owners had not yet collected the trash. Some Apartments held memories of life from before the Incident, in the form of ragged books or even worn photographs. Those lacking pictures had decorated the walls of their Apartments with their own form of artwork: graffiti. Colorful murals, landscapes, even simple abstract swirls of color lent the entire structure a feeling of optimism that contradicted the gloom of the cramped and dirty living conditions.
Recently, the Residents had seen the addition of several families to their numbers. Now five or six children ran in and among the Stacks, shrieking with amusement as they chased one another. The early hour seemed to have no effect on them, as they were just as energetic now as they would be twelve hours from now. The adults were slower to wake, instead talking in low voices to one another as they began to get moving for the day.
Eyes tracked the Patrol's movements as it moved towards the rear of the Warehouse to where the Storage Locker stood. It was well –removed from the Apartments: a rather effective way to prevent the theft of supplies. The Storage Locker was also the only container that had its doors closed and secured. It was flanked by a Guard on each side of the doors as well. Though none of the Residents showed any propensity for thievery, the Voice took no chances. With resources becoming increasingly scarce, they could not afford for food to mysteriously go missing. The rotation of Guards acted as a deterrent, and thus far had been effective in ensuring the protection of the Warehouse's supplies.
When the Guards standing watch spotted the Patrol, they quickly opened the doors to the storage locker. The Patrol quickly unloaded their packs, officially cataloguing them before putting them on the improvised shelves within the unit. Out of the corner of his eye, the Voice saw the Shadow remove two items from the packs and tuck them into her cargo pockets. Had it been anyone else, the Voice would have been suspicious of her actions, but the combination of years of trust and the fact that she had been the one foraging on her own the entire night allowed him to reason that she had a good reason for taking supplies for herself. As it was, she was walking a thin line, and though it was doubtful any Resident would call her out on it, the Voice would be hard put to justify her actions to the Residents should any protest be made.
As soon as the night's loot had been officially catalogued and stored, the doors were shut once more, and after the Voice was given a report—situation normal—the Patrol was given the cue to disperse. They immediately began drifting in different directions, each heading towards their respective Apartments. Only the Shadow remained behind, keeping her position next to the Voice.
Without a word they turned and headed towards the north end of the Warehouse, where there was a stretch of open space that was free of shipping units. Used only for Warehouse-wide Gatherings, the glossy cement now stood empty, leaving the way clear for the two. It was a familiar path, one taken often which culminated in regular Council meetings.
In the northwest corner of the warehouse, a door could be discerned; it led to a small office, once used by the shipping company's floor management. Shafts of light peeked from beneath the windowless door, alerting the Voice and the shadow to the presence of the rest of the Council.
The Voice lengthened his stride so that he reached the door to the office first—he pulled the door toward him and held it for the Shadow, earning him a wry smile and a roll of the eyes as she passed by. Such chivalry was all but dead in the widespread struggle to survive. Now it served the sole purpose of being a way for the Voice to see the Shadow smile. He slipped into the office behind her to see the Council formed and waiting.
A black-haired woman was the first to verbally acknowledge their arrival, quickly abandoning the game of dominos she had been engaged in to stand and clutch the Voice in a fierce hug.
"Gibbs, you're back," she exclaimed softly, tired relief etched across her features. After a moment, she pulled back just enough to peg him with an accusatory glare. "You're late."
"Cut a man some slack, Abs," he responded with a small grin. "We had to go out a bit farther than usual."
"Ooh! How did we do?"
"Fairly well," the Shadow cut in. She had pulled out the larger of the two items she had tucked into her pocket earlier, and now tossed towards the taller woman, who caught it deftly despite her surprise. Abby turned the box over in curiosity, and then clutched it to her chest as she realized what it was.
"Hair dye?!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide with wonder and excitement. Ziva smirked triumphantly as she reached into her pocket to retrieve the second item she had hidden away, which was also tossed to the former forensic scientist. "Black lipstick!" Suddenly the Shadow was engulfed in a warm embrace, one which nearly knocked her over in Abby's enthusiasm. "Ziva, thank you, thank you, thank you!"
Gibbs watched the two women share their hug with a smile on his lips. He could barely contain his mirth when he saw Ziva mouth the words "I win" over Abby's shoulder, to which he raised his hands in concession.
It had become a competition, between the Voice and the Shadow, over the recent months. Surviving the Incident and its aftermath had caused changes in every Survivor, but to Gibbs, no change was more noticeable than the change that had occurred in Abby. Gone was Abby's perennially sunny nature, instead replaced by a more subdued persona. She still remained optimistic, but her excitement for life had ebbed, dampened by months of witnessing death and violence firsthand. Gibbs had seen similar changes in the younger Marines he once served with—the boys who had not been ready for combat. Abby now seemed out of place, having been forced to abandon her pristine lab to scrape by in a grimy shipping warehouse—and the Warehouse was one of the better shelters they had taken advantage of.
While Abby herself never admitted to feeling anything other than "fine", it pained Gibbs and Ziva both to see her in such a state. So they had taken it upon themselves to coax the old Abby out of her present shell. This included gifts, hugs, jokes, anything they could think of. And those rare moments, such as the one Ziva had earned just now, were so precious that Ziva and Gibbs competed for them. And Ziva had most definitely earned this one—Gibbs knew for a fact that none of the previous night's targets had carried such things as hair dye and black lipstick; which meant that Ziva had made an extra stop, possibly several, to procure such trivial items, putting her own safety at risk.
Gibbs had once thought that he would not take kindly to anyone who vied for Abby's attention; at least, not the kind of attention she generally reserved for him. But he found that he did not mind Ziva doing so. Not only did it challenge him to give Abby more attention on a regular basis, when otherwise he would easily lose sight of their unique relationship in the intricacies of running the Warehouse; it also allowed him to see the softer side of Ziva, an aspect of her nature that had come close to disappearing in the chaos of the Incident. Looking at the two of them now, it was difficult to remember how frosty their relationship had once been, when Ziva had first been assigned to NCIS. They had definitely grown closer, that much was certain. Abby enjoyed having a close female friend, and Ziva had become especially protective of the Goth.
"Report," Gibbs said to the man standing across the room from him, tossing a dirt-caked baseball up and down in one hand. The man ported disheveled hair and a short grizzled beard, a style common among the male Residents, as most usable blades were too valuable to waste on a daily shave. An old baseball jersey, courtesy of an Orioles fan, lay open to reveal a faded white wife beater. Well-worn jeans functioned well for this man, as his role in the Warehouse did not require any sort of extra pocket space that cargo pants, such as the ones that Gibbs wore, afforded.
"All quiet on the home front, Boss," Tony responded, pausing the ball-tossing momentarily. "As usual." As Chief of Security for the Warehouse, it was Dinozzo's responsibility to assign and supervise the Watch rotations. His men, Angels included, reported the night's activities to him, and he relayed the information to Gibbs.
"Good," Gibbs managed to reply before Abby cut in.
"Not good, Gibbs," she said, detaching herself from Ziva, who leaned her hips against a desk, crossing her arms as she settled in to listen. "Tony's lying!" Abby continued. "It was not 'all quiet'! It was loud, really loud."
"Abs?"
"There were like, a hundred guys who were snoring last night. And none of them had the courtesy to shut their doors! And it's all metal in there Gibbs… It echoed."
"It was five guys," another man piped up from his seated position on the floor, next to the abandoned domino game. The man wore a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a grimy t-shirt underneath. Firmly muscled arms seemed to clash with his boyish face—he had a beard also, but it was so fair that in the shadows of the warehouse he appeared to be clean-shaven. He carried about him an air of quiet intellect, a persona fitting for the Warehouse's Chief Technician—a title he shared with the woman he was currently contradicting. "And it was not echoing, Boss," McGee added, giving Gibbs a meaningful look.
Gibbs bit back a grin. He knew exactly what had happened. Ever since the Incident, Abby had been without caffeine. Her symptoms of withdrawal at the time had been eclipsed by the struggle to stay alive, but as they had begun to find some degree of safety, it had been discovered that some symptoms still lingered, often manifesting in the Goth's sleeping habits. Despite often being fatigued, Abby found it difficult to fall asleep. Sometimes it would take hours for her to drift off, only to awake at the slightest disruption. Certain stressors aggravated her predicament, and having both Gibbs and Ziva outside the Perimeter was more than enough to warrant a difficult night. And when Abby was awake at night, even the softest noise would seem thunderous and grating. Once, in one of their past shelters, Abby had ripped McGee a new one for simply inhaling too many times in one minute.
"Abby," Gibbs said, careful not to incur her wrath by sounding too dismissive, "you know that now is not the time for this." Abby pouted, but Gibbs could tell that she was now more playful than angry. "You need to bring this up at the next scheduled Gathering." Gibbs knew that it would never be brought up at a Gathering. Oftentimes, Abby either forgot her irritation by the time the next one rolled around, or she had realized how trivial the whole thing was.
"New Guard schedule for both the Armory and the Storage Locker has been posted, Boss," Tony continued. "Rotation is good to go." The resumed tossing of his baseball indicated the end of his report. Gibbs nodded in approval before turning to the man standing next to Dinozzo, leaning against a battered filing cabinet.
The man was non-descript, with tangled sandy hair and murky brown eyes. He dressed shabbily, often throwing on whatever he could find, regardless of its condition. His beard was sparse, blotching his chin and jaw unevenly. The man also sported a pinched nose which, coupled with his dark watery eyes, gave Gibbs the impression of a rat. Gibbs did not like him personally, but the man was inexplicably charismatic. He was well-liked among the rest of the Residents, making him an ideal candidate for the post of Chief of Labor. It was his responsibility to assign work details within the Warehouse, and rotating the chore-like tasks on a regular basis, so that every Resident shared the experience of maintaining the Warehouse.
"New trash detail assigned," Mark reported, sending a wink in Ziva's direction. Perhaps that was why Gibbs was predisposed to disliking the man—Mark had yet to accept that Ziva was off-limits to the likes of him. It was common knowledge within the Warehouse that the Israeli was spoken for, but it didn't dissuade Mark in the slightest. As he spoke, Mark's eyes never left Ziva, as if he were reporting to her rather than Gibbs. To Ziva's credit, however, she barely spared him the effort of a fleeting glare before disregarding him entirely.
"We're going to start cracking open Ward 6 this week," Mark continued, referring to the field of shipping containers that had not been needed to build the maze. Instead they stood where they had been found, waiting for the crew of Residents to open their doors and catalogue whatever items they housed. "McGee?" Gibbs prompted, having received all the information he deemed necessary from Mark.
"Boss, we found some fiberoptics in one of the containers yesterday." The younger man's excitement was palpable. For the past few weeks, his pet project had been the reconstruction of an old computer and attempting to wire it into the internet somehow. Since the Incident, all internet access had essentially dried up, and McGee hoped that should he be successful, he would be able to contact someone who had not fallen victim to the Incident. "If we can—"
"No." Ziva's interruption was sharp. Gibbs glanced at her in surprise, only to find her expression as hard as her voice.
"But Ziva," McGee began to explain, "if we—"
"No, Tim," she cut him off once more. "No. You have been putting around with that thing for weeks—"
"Putzing," Dinozzo corrected. Almost immediately he shrank away from the scorching glare she sent in his direction.
"—and you have nothing to show for it except more false hopes," she continued as if Tony hadn't spoken. "You have wasted too much time on it already, when you should have been focusing on things that will actually help us survive."
"It's not wasted if we can get in contact with—"
"With who, McGee?" she interrupted again. Her voice had risen only slightly, but even that subtle difference told the rest of the Council exactly how much the whole thing bothered her. "Who exactly do you think you will be able to get in touch with?" She began to pace. "It should be obvious to everyone by now that no one is going to come to our rescue." She stopped and looked McGee in the eye. "Do you not think no one knows our situation? The entire world saw the Incident. They stood by and watched as the nation dissolved into chaos. They didn't step in to stop the Blockade, and they haven't attempted to stop the violence among the Survivors." She paused for a moment, before making a conscious effort to soften her voice. "They have left us for dead, McGee. It is time you accept the fact that the only people who are able to help us are the ones living in this Warehouse." McGee stared at her, either too startled or too scared to respond.
"Ziva's right, McGee," Gibbs said, his voice warm, but firm. "We don't have the luxury of waiting for help from beyond the Border. We're on our own. Move on to another project."
"Alright Boss," McGee replied dully, unable to disguise his disappointment. A moment of silence followed before Abby spoke.
"I've been thinking about our next project, actually," she said hesitantly. "Don't worry, it's definitely useful," she added quickly when Gibbs shifted his attention to her. When he continued to look at her expectantly, she continued. "I think we can work with the existing wiring in the Warehouse to create a renewable energy source."
"You mean like solar power?" Ziva asked, her tone now inquisitive. Abby nodded enthusiastically.
"Or wind-generated power. Even both, if we can get the necessary parts. If it works, we'd be able to recharge certain kinds of batteries, and if we can do that, then we'd be able to do a whole bunch of different things."
"Like what, Abby?" Tony asked.
"Indoor lighting for the Warehouse, for one thing. We could have long-distance communication if we could find some walkie-talkies." She looked at Gibbs. "Which means we wouldn't have to worry about the possibility of Patrols not coming back, because they would be able to be in constant contact with the Warehouse." Gibbs cocked an eyebrow in her direction. "If we were really successful, like, really really successful, we could even reconfigure a car or a motorcycle or something to run off batteries alone. Easier transportation and greater ability to gather more supplies at one time, so we wouldn't even have to Patrol and Forage so often." A moment of silence passed as the others stared at her in slight disbelief.
"Do you really think you could do that, Abby?" Ziva asked, her voice full of quiet awe. After so many months of having no other choice but to travel on foot, the luxury of a motorized vehicle seemed far-fetched.
"I think so," Abby replied. "It's definitely feasible. The only reason the cars don't work now is because there's no gas. Or, they're completely destroyed by Rovers and such. But yeah, they had solar-powered cars even before the incident. They just never caught on because either they weren't practical or too expensive or not pretty enough. But me and McGee, I think we could figure it out."
"Yeah," McGee said, his excitement growing again as his brain shifted into high gear. "It's definitely possible. It'll probably be the last thing we try to put together though. I think we could even find a way to get a cycle of generators working. It's bound to get hot in here during the summer, so maybe we could Forage some floor fans from some residences…" He looked at Gibbs. "I think it is definitely possible."
"Do it," Gibbs said.
"I was really hoping you'd say that Gibbs, because I've already begun working on it." She grinned at the shocked faces staring at her. "Not anything huge… Just something to recharge a couple of AA batteries, to see if it was possible. And I've been poking around the Warehouse's electrical system. It's in pretty good condition."
"Functional?"
"I'll know by this evening."
"Keep me updated," Gibbs ordered. Abby responded with a sloppy salute.
"Yes, sir," she said.
"Don't call me sir," Gibbs replied before turning to the two men who had thus far remained silent. The younger of the two men had an unruly mop of brown curls, which were accompanied by a sparse beard along his jaw line. Eyeglasses perched on his narrow nose which, accompanied by a thin frame slimmed further by the hunger experienced by all Residents, created a deceptively timid persona.
The older man, much shorter than the younger, sported an air of sophistication, despite the ragged state of his attire. A checkered polo was worn with the top button unfastened, and short sleeves revealed tan skin slack with age. He had graceful hands, steady from years of careful work as a doctor. Kind eyes exuded warmth, a stark contrast to the haggard expression common among all Survivors.
"Ducky,"Gibbs said, speaking to the older man, "status?"
"Mr. Palmer and I are in desperate need of supplies," the gentleman replied, motioning to himself and his younger colleague. 'We are down to ibuprofen tablets and adhesive bandages, which I am afraid will only be enough for a scraped elbow or two. We are grossly underprepared for any kind of injurious incident." Ducky paused. "I don't suppose you managed to pick up some medication last night on patrol, did you?"
"No," Ziva responded. Though the question had been directed at Gibbs, she had been the one to Forage all of the supplies on Patrol, giving her a more accurate knowledge of what had been acquired. "Medical supplies in the Vector have been Foraged already. Short of going house to house and raiding medicine cabinets, there are no medical supplies in any of the adjacent Vectors."
"Well, what about the Vectors surrounding the adjacent Vectors?" Ducky asked. "I hate to be persistent, but you cannot expect us to do much for the ill or injured on the meager resources we currently have at our disposal."
"You know, Doctor," Palmer said, speaking for the first time since the Council was in session, "Mercy Hospital isn't too far from Vector Nine. They may have left supplies behind when they evacuated."
"Yes," Ducky responded, instantly warming to the idea. He turned to Gibbs. "You were just out that way last night, Jethro, but if you don't mind a little familiar scenery, there is a good chance that the hospital staff will have more than enough supplies to last us for months!" Gibbs and Ziva shared a wary look, one that was not missed by the Englishman. "What is it?" he asked. After a moment's hesitation, Ziva responded.
"The far end of Vector Nine has been tagged by a new gang," she said.
"Well, that's nothing new," McGee said before the Israeli could continue.
"Yeah, who is it this week?" Tony chimed in. "Sharks? Jets? Deadly Fish?"
"Bloods," Gibbs said bluntly. As he surveyed the rest of the Council, he saw he color drain from their faces as the implications sank in, save for Mark, whom Gibbs suspected was too new to the area to know of the Black Blood Gang. Tony ceased all movement, the baseball falling to his palm with a light smack.
"Oh," Dinozzo said, at a loss for anything better to say.
"Dear Lord," ducky breathed. Abby's eyes were glued to Gibbs, wide with fear.
"Bloods?" Mark asked gingerly, aware of the shift in ambiance. "What--?"
"An extremely dangerous and violent gang," Ziva answered, not bothering to make him finish his question. Gibbs knew that this was only the most basic of descriptions Ziva could have given. She, and any other Council member, knew exactly just how horrific the Bloods were.
The Black Blood Gang consisted mostly of former military personnel, those who had been abandoned when the Blockade had isolated the East Coast from the rest of the country. The moment the quarantine began, soldiers and sailors alike had used all of their knowledge and training to become top dogs, and soon they had acquired an extensive arsenal of weapons. They adopted combat mindsets, and had no qualms about killing to further their advantage. Within weeks they had earned a reputation for unnecessary violence, having developed a thirst for blood that could never be quenched. They murdered anyone they Encountered, using whatever weapons they had at their disposal, even using their bare hands if needed.
Their military training made them formidable opponents, and with their weapons and numbers, many surviving gangs knew to clear out if Bloods were in the area. Gibbs and his group were no exception; it had been a mere six months since their last Encounter. At the time, they had been using sewer tunnels as shelter. The Bloods had hunted them, tracking them from the surface. Their approach had been to stealthy that Gibbs had only managed to evacuate half the Group before the Bloods reached the camps. They immediately set the place aflame, the tents and blankets quickly catching fire. They had then proceeded to slaughter the remaining Survivors as they scattered, trying desperately to seek refuge from the onslaught. The screams of the dying, and the women the Bloods had let live long enough to be ravaged, haunted Gibbs' consciousness, and he doubted that he was the only Resident who heard them.
No, he knew for a fact that he was not the only one still affected by that night. Ziva had been close enough to see the fire start. She, as his second-in-command, had been attempting to guide Survivors from the camp to where Gibbs was waiting along the escape route when the Bloods had struck from the far side of the camp. She had attempted to run through the blaze to save those trapped on the other side, but Tony—bless his heart—had had the presence of mind to forcibly pull her away. But he was not quick enough to keep her from witnessing a man not three arm's lengths away fall victim to a Blood's improvised machete. It was possible that Ziva had witnessed worse in her days as a Mossad operative, but Gibbs had spent more than one night since soothing her after she had a nightmare of the event. Assuring her that nothing could have been done to save those people, that it was better that she had not gotten close enough to fight that machete-wielding knife, had done nothing to assuage her guilt, and he had soon stopped murmuring such words. Instead he simply held her close, and waited for the sun to come up.
After that night, any consequent possibility of running into the Bloods again was avoided, often in the form of quickly vacating the area and abandoning whatever shelter they were using at the time. Any talk of fighting against the Bloods were immediately quashed; the Bloods were too numerous, too well-trained, and too well-armed to resist. The only tried and true way to survive the Bloods was to avoid Encountering them at all costs.
"We've fought rival gangs before," Mark said naively. Tony scoffed mirthlessly.
"Yeah ok," the Italian said. "Let me know how that works out for yah. Oh, wait a minute! You won't be able to because you'll be dead! Kaput!"
"Dinozzo!" Gibbs barked. The younger man immediately snapped out of his growing hysteria.
"Sorry, boss," he responded, looking only mildly chagrined. Gibbs understood his anxiety; Tony was only one of many Residents to have lost close friends to the Bloods. It was finally Ziva who took pity on Mark's ignorance.
"The Bloods are not like the other gangs," she stated. "They are killers, murderers. They kill for the thrill of the hunt, for the taste of blood. They hunt other Survivors and cut them down like animals. We do not have the manpower or resources to fight them." She looked Mark straight in the eye to drive her point home. "If we Encounter the Bloods at any time, they will slaughter us, and we would be lucky if they did it quickly." By this point, Mark had acquired the same pallor as the rest of the Council.
"Got it," he managed to squeak out.
"No, you don't," Ziva contradicted. "And you should pray that you never have to."
"Gibbs," Abby said, her voice barely more than a plaintive whisper. "Are we moving? Again?" At this, the rest of the Council looked to Gibbs for his response. He knew that they were conflicted in what they hoped his answer to be.
Of all the shelters that had claimed over the past months, the Warehouse had become the most permanent. Its layout was ideal for a group as large as theirs, and its inherent protection allowed the Residents to settle and establish some semblance of a functioning society. The majority of the Residents no longer had to scurry about in the shadows to scrounge for food, the only exceptions being those that went beyond the Perimeter on Patrol. The stability of their current environment allowed them to feel human again, and they didn't want to give it up. At the same time, they were all too aware of the potential consequences of remaining so close to Bloods.
"They have only tagged the far end of Vector Nine," Ziva said, shooting a glance at Gibbs. He knew the meaning of the glance. She was buying him time to come to a decision without having the pressure of the Council's attention on him. "We do not tag either, so there is no reason to suspect they know we are here. They may not come any closer than they already have."
"Yeah, that might actually fly if you believed it yourself, Zee-vah," Tony said brazenly.
"We are more organized than we were six months ago," she continued. "We have better round-the-clock security measures and multiple escape routes." Gibbs quickly saw where she was going.
"We stay," Gibbs said, regaining the room's focus.
"Gibbs—" Abby stopped there. She knew she should protest, but couldn't deny the relief she felt at his decision.
"For now," Gibbs continued. "We stay, we watch. The Bloods come any closer, then we leave."
"I don't know if the Residents are going to go for that, Boss," McGee said softly.
"We didn't force them to follow us, McGee, and we're not going to start now. We tell them about the situation and what we plan to do. They want to leave, they can do so whenever they like."
"Gathering in ten, Gibbs?" Ziva asked. Gibbs nodded. She left the room swiftly, intent on spreading the word.
"You all don't have to stay either," Gibbs said to the others as the door shut behind her. His words were first met with shock, then indignation. Abby gave him a sharp smack to the midsection, which he received with an arched eyebrow.
"Gibbs!" she growled menacingly. "How dare you!" She glared at him. "When have we ever given you any reason to think we would want to leave you?"
"Yeah, Boss," Tony joined in. "Following the leader is what we do best." He paused. "Plus, there's no way Ziva is leaving without you. And without either of you to watch our backs out there beyond the Perimeter, well… We'd be signing our own death warrants." A moment of appreciative silence followed his words, accompanied by agreeable nods. Then the office door opened, and Ziva leaned against the door frame.
"Gibbs, they've Gathered."