AN: Thanks so much for the reviews. I thought I was done, but my story fairy would not give up with this one. I have an incredible desire to see our beloved team with the happiest of endings-even if they suffer a little to get there. So, here is another chapter!...

Chapter 2

It took Dave nearly an hour to reach the outskirts of town where his car was parked. Once the infestation had hit, a reasonably unreasonable panic had ensued. The government, in its usual wisdom, had announced evacuation, listing an alphabetized order, and expected citizens to follow. Naturally, it was every man for himself after that. People left everything littering the streets in an attempt to exit on one of the government-sponsored cargo trains leading west. Cars, bikes, taxis, buses—anything with wheels—were deserted, making driving impossible in the city and blocking the exits for many.

There hadn't been such a mass exodus like that in his lifetime. Everyone leaving, talking about the same thing, as if it were their savior. Westward ho, the mecca for people, a safe haven...

A week later, the BAU team found that California had been overrun with zombies, and they were beginning to leech toward the interior of the country, just like they had been doing on the east coast for the past few weeks.

Dave approached his large sedan, clicking the entry button on his key fob. Although there were no people left in Quantico to steal his car, he didn't know if zombies knew how to open car doors. They weren't the most resourceful creatures, but he didn't want one popping up from his back seat just in case!

After a precursory check of said back seat, he slid into the front seat of his car. He shook his head, a bit miffed that he'd become one of "those people," who checked the rear before he climbed in. Putting that aside, he clicked on his seat belt—safety first—and then flicked on his CD.

The warm tones of Tony Bennett filled the car, and for a while, he let himself relax. His car had been relatively new; the fresh smell of leather was foreign amongst the trash and rot surrounding him outside. He loved that car. It was a thirty-minute drive back to his home. He might as well enjoy it.

Home. He hadn't thought of that place in that way for a long time, even since before the zombies hit. For many years, he'd been content being alone, a bachelor in a swanky, deluxe bachelor pad the Rat Pack would've been proud of. He had good food, great Scotch, and enough women to keep his libido—and his ego—feeling good. A man's castle that fit him to a tee.

And then she'd come into his life...and left from his life...and the place hadn't been the same since.

To keep his mind off his melancholy thoughts, he started singing along with Tony. It was a mindless, romantic tune he'd sung a million times before. He liked Tony Bennett, and he wondered somewhat aimlessly if he'd survived the attack. Seemed a shame that a man like Tony Bennett could make it through six decades of music, only to be felled by a brain-eating idiot that couldn't speak.

Dave turned his CD up as a wash of anger rode over him again, threatening his thirty minutes of peace. That was the one thing that bothered him the most about zombies—the noise. It started as a low hum of discontent, only to rise to an inharmonious discord of moaning and wailing that didn't resemble human speech at all. It seemed criminal to him; they walked like a human, had a physical approximation to humans, but sounded like nothing even remotely human—or alive, for that matter.

The road leading to his home had plenty of cars littering the way, and he zigzagged his way through the obstacles. He glanced to the left and saw an unfamiliar car in a ditch. It reminded him of the car she used to drive, one of those eco-friendly models that were all the rage with women. He hated that car. Sure, it got one hundred miles to the gallon, but it had absolutely no get up and go when it came to hills. He'd threatened more than once that he'd use his sedan to push her car up to his house when he'd followed her home after work.

Her response had been always the same: "Patience—and saving the environment—are virtues, David."

God, he missed her! He missed all of them—Reid, Morgan, Garcia, JJ, and Aaron. It made him wonder why he was still there in Quantico when they were all gone. As a foremost expert in his field and a pioneer in new tactics, he'd been requested to stay by the Feds, asking for him to monitor any activity that came to the FBI, and he'd done it with pride. He'd heard from the government twice since then, from cities farther away from the center of activities than he was.

They weren't keeping their necks on the line. They weren't battling the undead daily. They weren't away from their families.

He was.

No more. He was packing his bags and he was heading out, to find everyone he missed and loved. He would start with Garcia. She was closest in Kansas, and he could find out if she'd touched base with anyone. He'd try Morgan in Illinois and then Reid in New Mexico. He'd take his car—his one safe haven—and he'd find his friends, and maybe together, they'd figure this shit out.

They always did their best thinking as a group. He'd learned that lesson when he first started with the team, and he'd never forgotten it.

He turned to head up the hill to his house, feeling more hopeful than he'd felt in weeks. Everything seemed to get just a little bit better at that moment. He mentally began taking notes on what he wanted to bring—the essentials, food, water, cigars, coffee, guns, ammunition, blankets, toiletries, clothing, extra gas. He'd make it, but it wouldn't be an easy journey at all.

Dave pulled into his garage, shut the door, and then popped the trunk before exiting his car. He started packing flashlights and batteries, a camp stove and propane, and his extra gas can. Extra ammo came next, along with a long-range rifle with electric sights, along with several other odds and ends. Satisfied with his choices from his garage, he closed his trunk and started into his house.

When he opened the adjoining door, he noticed his lights were on in his kitchen. He must've left them on all day. That made him frown; she'd worked hard on reminding him to shut off the lights and be more prudent. He'd tried to remember, as a way to honor her memory.

He took out a couple of paper bags in his kitchen and began loading them with food. He was going to take everything that wasn't perishable. He found some cans of vegetables, some soups, and in the back of his cabinet was a can of tuna. He reached back, grabbing—

"David..."

Dave sat up so quickly, he clunked his head on the shelf. He looked around, his heart pounding in his chest. He had to have imagined that voice. There was no way she was here. He had to be imagining things. There was no way. She'd died. She'd died before the damned zombies even showed up.

She'd died.

Shaking off his ridiculous thoughts, he opened his pantry door and began to throw in crackers and crispbreads, pancake mix and cereal, and a variety of chips. He threw in a few Twinkies—those things would last longer than he did—and cookies for later, just in case he craved something sweet on the road.

Walking to his bedroom, he crossed the room and then stopped in the bathroom and threw in toothpaste, toothbrushes, soap, lotion, and his razor. He didn't know if he was going to use the razor, although he didn't want to look like he made duck calls in Louisiana, either.

That made him smile. He liked that show.

Finally, he started out of his bathroom so that he could pack a small bag with his clothes. Jeans and t-shirts were all he really needed, along with a couple of sweatshirts and socks. Nothing extravagant or unnecessary.

He did pack his Italian silk boxers. Some luxuries man should never have to live without.

He'd barely made it to the door with his bags when he heard the voice again.

"David..."

The hair stood up on the back of his neck, but he threw caution and the door to the wind and stepped out. A second later, his bags dropped from his suddenly nerveless fingers.

Oh, God...

Erin.