(I-25 Highway, CO)

"Damn."

"What is it?"

The sleepy murmur provokes another muted curse as Buck Wilmington tightens his fingers around the steering wheel, his hope of not waking the woman sleeping beside him clearly having failed. Abysmally. With his foot pressing firmly against the brake pedal, he allows himself to look Inez in the eye, and he catches the familiar pull at both corners of his mouth, even if a smile, no matter how dim, is hardly warranted, given everything going on.

"Just another traffic jam, darlin'. Go ahead and get back to sleep."

"If it is just another traffic jam, why do you sound so upset?"

"Ain't upset. Just frustrated is all."

"That is essentially the same thing, Buck, and you know it."

"Anyone ever tell you you're too smart for your own good?" Buck teases, Inez's answering grin easing some of the tension that he can feel winding its way through the muscles of his shoulders and neck, "Wish we were back in Denver already."

"Do you believe Chris will still be there when we arrive?"

Buck does not immediately respond to the question, his attention shifting to the gridlock of cars in front of their own vehicle as though he is hoping for the answer to appear in the taillights that ignite their surroundings in red. The truth is, he does not know if Chris will still be at the ranch. He doesn't know if the girls would be there, as well.

In the weeks since the world had flown apart at the seams, there had been stories of people fleeing cities. Trying to find scattered remnants of their family in other states. Before the radio broadcasts had stopped altogether, it had been no secret that people were desperately trying to find something—someone—to cling to in the chaos that was fast becoming the new normal.

Not for the first time, Buck is entirely incapable of avoiding the thought that runs on a near constant loop in his mind. The thought of how damned ironic it would be if Larabee decided to uproot his family to find him in New Mexico, while he journeyed to Denver, trying to find them…

Obsessing over the what ifs won't change their reality, though, and even if Buck knows Inez will see through his half-hearted attempt at enthusiasm in seconds, it is not entirely enough to dissuade him from trying to pass it off, anyway.

"Gonna take a hell of a lot more to get Chris off that ranch than this."

"If he thought leaving would keep his sisters safe, he would," Inez counters, automatically reaching out for Buck's hand so that her fingers can thread through his own as easy as breathing, "Morgan, too."

"Sam sure as hell wouldn't leave without her."

"Exactly."

With the weight of Inez's hand in his own, Buck tries to unclench the tightened muscles of his jaw. He tries to relax, because even if the ranch proves to be a dead end, he knows that his sister will not be alone. That the rest of his found family will remain together, to keep his sister safe. It isn't exactly enough to remove his worry, though, and the understanding look Inez sends him proves that she knows that, as well.

Still, he cannot shake the pressing need to see Morgan for himself. To see Chris again. Sadie. Sam.

In the bedlam that has taken over the world in the last weeks, the desire to be with his family again had been near to overwhelming. It had only grown as time passed. A part of him had spent no small amount of time wondering if Inez would agree to head back to Denver with him at all. If she would not rather try to find family of her own.

When she had been the one to suggest the drive to Colorado, though, Buck had wasted no time packing. Gathering the essentials, and she had done the same. But now?

Now he is stuck with traffic at a standstill for what feels like the hundredth time since leaving home, his skin practically itching with a burning need to keep moving.

"Where will we go, if they are gone?"

"Cy's cabin, maybe."

"After all that man has done, you want him with us?"

"Ain't thinkin' of goin' there for him, darlin'. But can't deny he could be mighty useful."

"Useful in what way?"

Again, concern bleeds its way into Inez's expression. Into her voice, and Buck is suddenly incapable of looking her in the eye, because he knows what he is suggesting—what he is thinking—is insane. Chris sure as hell wouldn't go to his father. He wouldn't take Sam, Sadie or Morgan there, either, so the idea of finding them there if they aren't at the ranch is hardly credible at all.

But if Buck knows anything about Cyrus Larabee, it is that the man is a survivor. A hunter. War veteran. Capable of throwing his weight behind a gun if it came down to a fight for their lives.

As much as he honestly hates the thought of relying on that man—of letting him anywhere near Inez—the idea of being able to count on reinforcements in Chris's absence is something he cannot entirely ignore. Even if the thought is more than enough to tie his stomach into knots.

"Hopefully it ain't gonna come to that," Buck says, aware of how Inez will clock his careful evasion of an actual answer to her question in seconds flat, and yet choosing to press on, regardless, "Hopefully Chris an' the rest'll be at the ranch and we'll be good to go."

"If we ever get there with this traffic."

"We'll get there, darlin'. Come hell or high water, we'll get there."

Inez gives his hand one final squeeze before letting go, and Buck watches as she settles back in the passenger seat to look out at the gridlock surrounding them on all sides. Once again, he is amazed by her tenacity. Her utter faith in him, when he can hardly bring himself to trust that what he is doing is the right thing.

It would be a lie for him to pretend he is not grateful. That he is not blatantly aware of how Inez is a woman that a man like him can never truly deserve. But regardless, Buck is still just as determined to try as he always has been, even if he fails to find Chris at the ranch. Even if he has to turn to a man like Cyrus Larabee for help in the aftermath.

All he can do is try to protect the woman he loves. Try to keep her with him.

And pray like hell that he isn't dragging her into something they cannot survive as a result.

…

(St. Joseph Hospital, Denver, CO)

After stowing the car he'd driven into the city in a nearby deserted alleyway, Vin had taken the remainder of the journey to the hospital on foot, his hand occasionally drifting back to brush against the weapons belted to his waist. In spite of the hope that they won't be needed, something in his gut tells him he isn't about to be that lucky.

He'd brought a gun just in case, but knew a knife would ultimately serve him better when the dead that roamed the streets were only drawn in by noise of any kind. And as the sounds of a disturbance up ahead pull him from a steady walk into a run, any hope he might have had to get in and out of the city without incident disappear altogether.

Gunshots. Muffled shouts through a megaphone. More gunshots, and the distant echo of a scream…

Vin is sprinting by the time he finally clears the last block that dumps into a circular drive leading to the hospital's main doors. But in contrast to the many other times he's been here, dodging in between moving vehicles, now, the only thing standing in his way is a blockade of soldiers, their weapons all trained on something near the doors that he cannot quite see.

Something he cannot see, at least, until one of the soldiers shifts, giving him a clear view of something shambling out toward the barricade. Shambling and snarling with gnashing teeth.

One of the dead.

Another gunshot blares its way into the eerie silence that weighs over them all like some sort of heavy blanket, but Vin barely notices when the figure that had been moving towards them falls to the ground. His ears are ringing, but the sensation quickly fades when compared to the singular thought blaring like an alarm through his mind.

Chris is in there, somewhere. Inside the hospital. He can already see faint signs of erratic movement in the doorway, a clear indicator of more of the dead heading towards the sound of the fading shot.

Chris is in there. With those—things.

And Vin had promised to get him out.

Almost without thinking, he begins to weave his way through the barricade, finding a spot to slip through with relative ease. The soldiers have all fixed their attention on the things coming out of the hospital doors, such that they do not initially seem to notice him at all.

Vin is not blind to how, even if the soldiers do not stop him, he will have to contend with the dead himself. But the knife at his belt slips into his hand on instinct as he slings one leg over a small collection of sandbags that make up a semicircle erected in front of where the soldiers stand. His fingers tighten their grip around the handle.

For a moment, he catches himself believing that he might make it. That the men will not notice him, or they simply will not care that some fool is running into a small group of the dead, rather than running away.

As soon as the thought crosses his mind, though, Vin feels the weight of a hand grabbing for his arm. Yanking him backwards until he is stumbling backward over the sandbags, and then spinning to find himself face to face with an incredulous and angry soldier.

"What in hell d'you think you're doin'?"

"Let go of me."

"Answer the damned question, son," The soldier persists, his grip never once loosening even in spite of how Vin tries to pull away, "Shouldn't even be in the damn city."

"Why the hell not?"

"Take a look at what's comin' outta those doors. That's why."

Unable to avoid the way the soldier strong arms him into doing exactly what he says as soon as the grip on his arm is replaced by an equally firm hold on his shoulder, Vin watches as more of the dead shamble out into the daylight. He cannot seem to look away when they are shot down with the sort of clinical precision that belies the lack of anything routine about this situation at its core.

It does nothing to dissuade him from needing to get to Chris, but Vin is not exactly foolish enough to try wrenching away from the soldier a second time. Particularly when he cannot help but notice one of the man's companions moving closer with a hand placed clearly on the pistol at his hip.

"Best get on outta here, son. You ain't equipped for this."

"He's right. Don't need civilians gettin' mixed up and killed because they wanna try to play hero."

"That's not what I'm doin' here."

"Sure what it looks like—"

"Yeah, well it ain't," Vin insists, holding his ground when the first soldier who had grabbed him releases his hold, and his companion moves to stand almost uncomfortably close not long after, "My friend's in there."

"Your friend? Buddy, if your friend isn't one of those things already, he will be soon enough. He's gone."

"Yeah, well, forgive me if I don't just sit here takin' your word for it."

"Son," The first soldier admonishes, his tone more than a little patronizing as he offers his companion a sharp nod, effectively directing him to move off again to join the other men who are gathering to push forward into the hospital on offense, "You don't have any other choice."

"You gonna shoot me if I disagree?"

The words are foolish. Vin knows that almost as soon as they leave his mouth, but the mounting frustration at being continually held back from the one thing he came here to do prevents him from feeling any regret at all. He'd left the ranch that morning intent upon his goal, perhaps even more so given the faintest glimmer of something not all that far from hope that had flared to life in Sadie's eyes to replace the dimness that had been haunting her gaze, before.

She needed her brother back. Sam needed her brother back. Morgan needed Chris too, especially with Buck in New Mexico. And the one thing Vin was determined not to allow if there was any way he could avoid it was a failure to bring him home.

Judging by the expression the soldier is directing his way, that is precisely what Vin will experience—a failure—if he does not think fast.

"Didn't think so."

"Woah woah woah. Just 'cause I'm not gonna shoot you doesn't mean I can just let you go waltzin' on in through the front doors!" The soldier exclaims, clearly wary of how Vin has started to step back, bit by bit, as though anticipating some form of physical attack, "Where the hell d'you think you're going?"

Not bothering to reply, Vin heads off at a jog away from the blockade, intent upon making it seem as though he is simply going back in the direction from which he came. The sound of more rapid-fire gunshots, and frantic yelling stretches over the growing distance, and he catches himself hoping it will keep the soldier from focusing on him for much longer.

Truthfully, Vin has no intention of going back to the car. Of turning tail and retreating without a fight. Not yet. Not knowing that the hospital has plenty of side and rear doors, and that the soldiers have only erected their barricade out front.

He has no doubt if any of the soldiers streaming their way into the building happen upon him, they will not react kindly. He has no idea if he will encounter any more of the dead along the way. But if his time working with Chris at the precinct taught him anything, it would be how to use the layout of his surroundings to his advantage. How to get in and out quickly and quietly, if needed.

And that is precisely what he intends to do now.

…

(Larabee Ranch, Denver, CO)

"What are you doing in here?"

"Just—packing a few things."

"Any particular reason why?"

"You know we can't stay here, Morgan," Sam replies, not bothering to turn towards the sound of her friend entering the spare bedroom behind her, because she is far too intent upon staring at the object in her hand, instead, "When Vin gets back we need to be ready to move."

"Yeah. I know that. But why are you in here?"

Morgan is able to clock the tension that threads its way into Sam's posture in seconds, twining its way up her spine and branching out to each shoulder as though it belongs there. It is a response she could have predicted, and yet she still does not regret asking the question that caused it at all.

This room had once belonged to Adam Larabee. Chris's son. Sam's nephew. After the car accident that had taken his life, and his mother's, the room had become a sort of catch-all for items that could not find their place in the rest of the house. It was a room Sam hardly entered, at least until today.

It would be a lie for Morgan to pretend she isn't at least a little apprehensive over what might have driven her friend to this point, but true to form, she isn't about to let that show. Not when Sam could notice, at any rate, and it is that idea that prompts Morgan to move to Sam's side, in time to catch sight of exactly what the other woman is holding in the palm of her hand.

"Chris's dog tags."

"He gave them to Adam for when—for when he had to work nights, to help him sleep," Sam murmurs, still staring at the dog tags in her hand as though terrified if she looks away for even a moment, they will disappear, "I was looking for blankets. Extra bedding, and they just—they fell out from inside a pillow case."

"You should take them."

"Don't need them."

"The way you're staring at them right now? I think you actually do."

"What good will they do? It's not like we can kill one of those things with them."

"No, we can't," Morgan agrees, reaching out to snag the dog tags from Sam's hand as soon as she notices her friend is fully prepared to place them on a nearby table, abandoning them entirely, "But they're a piece of your family, Sam."

"You don't think Vin is gonna be able to bring him back."

"I didn't say that."

"Then what are you saying?" Sam demands, flinching just a bit at the volume of the words, and finally—finally—dragging her focus away from the item in her hand to look Morgan in the eye. As soon as she does, she is nearly bowled over by guilt. By the realization that, of the two of them, she is the one whose brother is nearby, conscious or not, while Buck is miles away.

With all of his belongings in New Mexico, now, Morgan has nothing of her brother's to keep nearby no matter where they go. But as much as Sam may want to make amends for her selfishness—for her abrupt departure from rational judgment—Morgan takes her stunned silence as leave to speak again, instead.

"I'm saying you should wear the damn dog tags, Sam. Or am I going to have to wrestle you and put them around your neck, myself?"

"I think I could take you."

"Oh really?"

"No," Sam deadpans, the faintest of smiles tugging at one corner of her mouth, while her shoulders shake around a laugh, "Anyone ever tell you that you're about as blunt as a butter knife?"

"Only all the time."

Morgan cannot help but grin, herself, as Sam's entire frame seems to relax in concession, her footsteps carrying her forward just a bit, until she can loop the silver chain around her friend's neck. She does not miss the roll of the eyes she receives as a result, but it does not discourage her at all, especially when she tracks Sam's fingers moving to brush against the dog tags as they rest against the fabric of her shirt.

Sam can try to feign exasperation all she wants, but Morgan knows her as well as she knows herself, at least most days. She knows that even if Sam would never admit it, she needed this.

Together, they fall back into the movements of finding things they may need for the uncertainty that rests ahead of them. They keep up a steady line of hushed conversation that steers away from anything less than superficial. It isn't exactly a secret that this cannot last. Sam and Morgan both know that. In fact, they've known it all along. But that doesn't make them any less determined to try.

Especially when both of them are hardly blind to exactly how many ways everything can still go wrong.

…

Hello again, my angels! And welcome (finally!) to another new chapter in this AU! Again, I offer my sincerest apologies for the delay between updates, because it is truly not my intent to string all of you along! I am still bursting with ideas for where this story can go, slow posts notwithstanding. So I hope that you are all still willing to stick with me for the ride?

As always, my heartfelt thanks go out to each and every one of you that has taken the time to read, follow, favorite and review this story so far! And special thanks to ChiTown4ever for leaving such lovely feedback the last time around! I truly do appreciate the support, more than any of you know, and I hope you enjoy this installment as much as the last!