(St. Joseph Hospital, Denver, CO—two days prior)

Slipping through one of the loading bays at the rear of the hospital, Nathan Jackson expects to encounter more of the smothering silence that has taken over this place. A place he used to consider a second home. He'd met his wife, here, on the pediatric floor during his residency. She'd given him a beautiful son inside these walls, as well.

Now, the place is barren. Empty, save for corpses in the morgue, and what sounded like a small army of the dead things that are plaguing the streets, barricaded behind the cafeteria doors. It's been weeks since he'd seen another living soul.

Nathan had grown accustomed to moving through darkened hallways on his own. To gathering as many supplies as he could carry, and carting them back to the abandoned home Rain and their son were sheltering in until they finalized a move away from the city. In a way, this constant foraging for medical necessities kept him occupied. Distracted from the reality of having no clue where he was supposed to take his family next in their search for safety.

Already he feels as though he has failed his family. A reality that stings even more when considering the recent death of Rain's grandfather taking all of them out at the knees.

Vows to protect another person were one thing, when the world still made sense. But when that world is starting to fall apart?

All that seems to be left is for him to do the very best he can to fulfill those vows, and hope for the best.

As he tries to shake those thoughts from his mind, knowing that any form of distraction, even in a place as seemingly abandoned as this, could prove fatal, Nathan focuses instead on continuing to move forward. He keeps an ear trained on the task of listening for anything outside of the silence that seems to weigh down on him like some sort of oppressive blanket.

Doing his best to keep his footsteps silent, on the off chance that some of the dead have managed to get inside, he tightens his grip on the strap of the empty duffel bag slung over one shoulder. Runs through the list of necessities he'd come up with before leaving Rain and their son behind.

It isn't until he manages to slip through a partially cracked open door leading into the hospital's first floor that he realizes that something is—different, this time. That he can hear what sounds like something shifting at the far end of the hall. Not long after, Nathan picks up on the screech of the stairwell door opening on protesting hinges, and then slamming shut not long after.

On instinct, he ducks behind a stack of crates resting just a few steps away, his hand already reaching for the weapon holstered at his hip. He places the duffel bag on the tiling beside his feet, knowing it will only hinder him if it comes to a fight.

Whatever it is that is responsible for the noise, Nathan does not think it is one of the dead. The complete lack of snarls and guttural groans all point towards the source of this disturbance being created by a human. And while he hardly wants to consider going up against what must be one of the few living that are left in the city, Nathan is also not exactly willing to let his guard down and risk getting killed because of it.

Muscles tensed, he waits as the sound of footsteps grows closer by the second. He listens as they slow, and then come to a complete stop a mere few feet away from where he remains concealed.

Again, Nathan is brought to the abrupt realization that this person is actually alive. They have to be. Perhaps, given the obvious hesitation on display, they already know, somehow, that he is nearby.

Brow furrowing, Nathan takes a steadying breath. He tightens his hold on the pistol in his hand. It is nearly impossible not to hesitate, when the oath he took as a physician lingers in the back of his mind, rising in direct contrast to any act of self defense if this newcomer is, in fact, a threat. But he knows that any delay on his part could mean he never makes it back to his family.

Another breath rushes out through his nose, and then Nathan is stepping out into the open, his weapon aimed at the newcomer even in spite of the disgust for the act that churns in his gut. In seconds, he realizes that this man is not armed. That he is clad in a pair of boxer shorts and a hospital gown, and clearly is in no shape to be moving around the city on his own.

As he secures the pistol in its holster once again, Nathan's eyes drop to the bandage wrapped around the man's torso, a section of the white fabric stained in red. And even if he is not altogether sure he wants to know the answer, he forces himself to look the stranger in the eye as he asks the one question that matters now, more than anything else.

"You bit?"

"Shot," The man replies, shifting almost warily on bare feet, clearly every bit as hesitant to trust that the individual he's seemingly found in an otherwise abandoned building means no harm as Nathan is, himself, "Just woke up this morning."

"Thought they'd cleared this place the few times I was here, before."

"Guess not."

"Yeah. Guess not," Nathan agrees, aware of the ever-present wariness in the other man's demeanor, and deciding that, at least for the moment, asking for his name might only make that particular situation worse. Regardless of the impossibility of it all, the man seems to be a patient here. Clearly he spent some time sedated, given the mention of having just woken up today.

From what little he already knows, Nathan suspects this man has little to no idea of just how much the world has changed in the last few weeks alone. And allowing him to continue on without at least trying to provide some manner of information is something he simply cannot allow.

"You got any idea of what's been goin' on out here since you've been laid up?"

"Just saw a bunch of dead in the hallways. No one else around."

"You go by the cafeteria?"

The man shakes his head, and Nathan takes note of the slight furrow between his eyebrows that comes about in response to the question in next to no time at all. Honestly, a part of him is relieved that the stranger did not have to witness something like that so soon after coming back to the world. He can still recall his own revulsion once comprehension set in the first time he'd been by the cafeteria, himself.

He knows the stranger has no reason to trust him. No reason at all to come with him to fetch his supplies, and then back to his family afterward. But regardless of those realities, Nathan is also entirely unwilling to risk saying nothing. To allow the man to venture out into the city on his own, with no weapon, and not even the most basic comprehension of what their world has become.

The oath he took as a physician is once again circling back to the forefront of his mind. Do no harm. And he knows that harm is exactly what will befall his newfound companion if he simply stands aside and lets him go off on his own.

"Should stick with me. Gather some supplies and then I can keep an eye on that wound."

"Need to be gettin' back home," The man counters, the wariness Nathan had already picked up on mingling with a sudden urgency, even if it is not exactly something such a weakened state will accommodate with ease. He does not say anything else, instead seeming intent upon remaining locked in this informal standoff.

It is almost as though a part of him still anticipates Nathan making some sort of move on offense if he dares to be the one to depart, first. Which, all things considered, is not exactly something he can be faulted for.

With that in mind, Nathan relaxes his stance as best he can. He holds both hands out as a show of peace. The man clocks the movement, but nothing that can be considered a reaction to it shows in his expression, leading Nathan with little else to do aside from attempting to plead his case once again.

"Ain't gonna get very far, the way you are right now. And you don't know what's out there."

"That your way of sayin' that I should trust a stranger to tell me?"

"When it comes right down to it? Yeah, guess it is," Nathan admits, dropping his hands back down to his sides, but keeping a careful eye on his companion's reaction to his words along the way, "You got any weapons on you?"

"It look like I do?"

"Won't get very far without 'em."

"Doesn't seem like there's many people 'round that I'd need to shoot."

"Not the people you need to be worried about."

"Alright. Who, then?" The man demands, whatever had prompted him to continue engaging in this conversation at all clearly not entirely ridding him of his skepticism, if the tension that is so clearly visible in his frame is any indication at all. For a moment, Nathan hesitates, warring with the idea that his explanation of the truth may only provoke disbelief, at best, and outright mistrust at the very worst.

He needs that trust, if this man has any hope of survival, stranger, or not. But even that is not enough to force Nathan to change his mind about next steps.

"The dead."

"Saw plenty of them on my way down here. Didn't seem to be much of a threat."

"That's because they'd already been put down. The real threat are the ones still walking around."

The man does not respond to the words, and to be honest, Nathan never really believed he would in the first place, but his expression depicts his growing frustration better than a reply ever could. And it is insane. The idea of a dead man walking around—killing—consuming—should be impossible. The subject of fantasy and nothing more.

It is no longer just a fantasy, though. It is very, very real. Something Nathan seizes upon as he attempts to keep this man's attention for even a little while longer, his hands once again extending outward as the stranger tries to step around him, and stumbles a bit as a result.

"Look, I get it. It's—it's crazy. I wouldn't believe it either, unless I'd seen it with my own eyes, but it's real. Stick with me long enough to get what I came here for, and I can show you."

In spite of the impenetrable mask the man seems to wear like a second skin, Nathan still sees the wheels turning. He sees this stranger considering his words. Deciding if he believes them, and what he wants to do about it if he does.

Knowing any appearance of outside pressure will only sway the man's decision against him, Nathan remains still. Alert, listening for any other sounds aside from those made by his own breathing. And he receives his answer, even if it does sound like it is given very reluctantly, the sharp nod the stranger gives him followed by what amounts to consent.

"You can't prove what you're sayin', I'm gone," He says, clearly attempting to hide a wince as he falls into step beside Nathan, and the act pulls at the edges of his wound. He seems capable of keeping pace easily enough, but Nathan slows his steps just a bit, anyway, for good measure. And even if he knows he has a long way to go before his companion believes him, he knows.

For now, this may just be as good as it's going to get.

…

(St. Joseph Hospital, Denver, CO—present day)

Standing in Chris Larabee's hospital room, Vin struggles to believe the reality that is right before his eyes. He tries to come up with a way to explain the inexplicable, but he can't.

He knows he is in Chris' room. He'd memorized the number almost as soon as his friend had been brought in. But unlike the other times he'd come to check in, this time, the bed is empty. Chris is nowhere to be found.

Stunned motionless, Vin had been capable of doing nothing except standing in place for what feels like hours, even though some still-functioning part of his mind realizes it truly has only been a few minutes. But the more time passes, the more he is left with nothing but the cold realization that his friend—a colleague who had become like family—is gone.

With no way of knowing if Chris' absence is indicative of his waking, and deciding to make the journey home, or if it implies he is dead, Vin finds himself at a loss for what to do. For what to think. A part of him hopes the explanation rests in the former option, despite knowing what fate Chris would be likely to face out on the streets, among the dead, with no weapon and no knowledge of what was going on.

The other part—and it is a part of himself that he hates—is almost more inclined to believe that Chris is really, truly dead. That he'd passed, and whatever limited staff remained at the hospital had taken the body to the morgue.

Acknowledging that reality is damaging enough on its own, but Vin is entirely powerless to avoid the tightening in his chest at the thought that comes next. He cannot run from the guilt that threatens to choke the air from his lungs.

His own feelings notwithstanding, Vin knows that what he has discovered will need to be passed on to Sam. Sadie. Morgan. He knows that he owes them all the truth, no matter how painful it may be for them to hear.

Already, he can predict Sam's retreat. The walls she will erect, that only Morgan will be able to tear down. He can see how the news will drive Sadie further into her shell, perhaps in such a way that she never fully returns to them at all. In the end, this will be yet another way that he's managed to fail the people that he had promised to protect, with his life if it came down to that.

For a moment, Vin considers simply staying put. Remaining where he is for just a while longer, if for no other reason than to delay the inevitable return to the ranch, and spare the women waiting for him there some pain, even knowing that it would be just about the most selfish thing he could ever do.

Dismissing the thought, and allowing the renewed guilt to linger inside of his chest, Vin turns in preparation to depart, and it is then that he hears it. A strange whistling sound, growing louder as time goes by, that is followed by a percussive boom, and the sensation of the tile flooring shaking and heaving beneath his feet.

By some miracle, Vin is able to keep his feet, stumbling over to the window at the opposite end of the room to get a look outside. To do anything to confirm that what his gut is telling him is happening cannot possibly be true. He remembers the callousness of the soldiers at the front of the hospital. How they seemed to have little care for anyone that might have remained inside, either living or dead. How they shot without hesitation when figures began moving out from the lobby.

He did not want to believe they would take the hospital to the ground, but another whistling sound, farther away this time, and more trembling in the floor underneath him seem to suggest that is precisely what is going on.

A fact that is only confirmed as soon as his gaze latches onto the sight of two tanks taking aim from their position behind the soldier's barricade several stories below.

"Jesus Christ—"

The soldiers were clearly intending to decimate the building from the get-go. He can see one of them on the ground, directing the men that had stormed the building earlier to get clear of the place, and that can only mean one thing.

If Vin wants to survive, he needs to get out now.

Sparing one final glance at Chris' now-empty bed, he forces himself to be grateful that his friend is not actually present for this. That he will not be woken to a facility crumbling to the ground around him. And as that thought settles firmly at the back of his mind, Vin does the only other thing that remains.

He runs.

…

(Larabee Ranch, Denver, CO)

In the dream, Sam is alone in the woods behind her father's cabin. Or at least she believes she is alone, until the sound of crunching twigs catches her attention, and she tries to turn toward the source. Alarm flares to life not long after, because somehow, she finds that she cannot move. But that does not stop whoever it is from continuing their approach, and soon, Sam finds herself standing eye to eye with a man she had believed to be dead.

"Miss me, Sammie-girl?"

Opening her mouth to retort, Sam finds that no words come out, the vitriol that she wanted to hurl at this man that had practically destroyed her sister stuck somewhere behind a sudden lump that is forming in her throat. She can still remember when Sadie had come back to the ranch. The bruises on her sister's skin, and the hollow look in her eyes.

Milton Sykes had never made much of a secret of his interest in Sadie, but between their father, and Sam's presence at the cabin more often than not, nothing had ever gone further than the occasional leer or lewd remark.

It had only taken one night, though. One night where Cyrus Larabee had already passed out from drinking since noon. One night when Sam had to work, and couldn't be with Sadie, herself. And that one night was when everything changed.

"Don't gotta go lookin' all angry at me, now. Little sister wanted what I did."

The words have Sam seeing red in seconds, instinct prompting her to reach behind her, where the gun she had used to kill this man had once resided, tucked inside the waistband of her jeans. Her fingers scrabble against the hem of her shirt for a moment, because nothing is there. No weapon. No means of silencing the man standing in front of her for good.

Milton must sense when she comes up empty, because his smirk only grows, exposing crooked, yellow teeth. And that seems to be enough to give Sam the wherewithal to speak, the words low—hard—because she wants nothing more than to see this man pay for everything he has done.

"She didn't want a damn thing from you."

"She tell you that? Or you just comin' up for an excuse to hide how you're jealous?"

"You can go to hell."

"Aw darlin', ain't no call to talk like that," Milton drawls, a shadow passing across his features as he steps closer to Sam, taking advantage of her clear inability to step away, and reaching out a hand to brush calloused fingertips against her cheek, "Plenty of Milton to go around—"

"Don't touch me."

"You want it, Sammie-girl."

Shying away from the touch as best she can with feet seemingly planted to the ground, Sam wants to scream. She wants to claw this man's eyes out, but her arms seem to have become planted at her side, through little to no conscious choice of her own. Her heart hammers against her ribcage, because she can see something changing in Milton's appearance. The man had always been skeletal, but now his skin seems to stretch even more tightly over bone. She begins to see signs of decay.

His touch against her cheek is cold. She flinches away, but it is still not enough to create any distance. And when she directs her gaze back to his face, she sees his mouth opening in a gaping snarl, fetid breath stinging against her nostrils as he moves still closer.

As he clamps rotted teeth down on her skin and she feels it beginning to tear…

Jolting awake with a gasp, Sam nearly takes a tumble to the floor, the blanket she'd haphazardly strewn across her legs before dozing on the couch only causing her panic to grow. It reminds her of how she'd been unable to move just moments ago. Bile rises in her throat as she shoves the fabric away as quickly as she can.

Her breath comes in shallow gasps as she wipes at the sweat that has gathered on her brow. As she shivers because it seems to coat the rest of her frame, as well. But before she can make any attempt at righting herself—at slowing her breathing, and evading the nausea that now roils in her gut—the sound of footsteps pull her attention to the sight of Morgan's sudden stop in the hall outside the den, one brow cocked as she takes in Sam's appearance, and makes her own assumptions in seconds, flat.

"Wow. You look like crap."

"Thanks, Mo."

"Wanna tell me why?" Morgan inquires, abandoning her trek through the hall in favor of stepping into the den, and taking a seat on a nearby armchair in next to no time at all. She can tell that something is bothering Sam. Her features are drawn, and there is a faint tremor in her hand as she drags her fingers through somewhat tousled hair.

Familiar green eyes almost seem haunted, something Morgan can see even if Sam is refusing to look her in the eye. And in spite of her best wishes, Morgan can already tell Sam's response will not exactly be indicative of cooperation.

"Not particularly."

"Too bad. Spill."

"Morgan—"

"No, Sam. Spill. What the hell has you so scared?"

"I'm not scared," Sam begins, the words tasting bitter in her mouth, even if she knows full-well that Morgan would never judge her, even if she did admit to experiencing a little fear, "It was—it was just a dream."

"A dream about what?"

"Where's Sadie? She shouldn't be on her own."

"Eating in the kitchen," Morgan replies, taking in Sam's almost immediate shift from reluctant tolerance of her presence, to surprise, and forcing herself to suppress a knowing smile in response, "Seems like Vin going to get Chris brought her back a bit."

"That's—that's good."

"It is. So maybe you can at least think about answering my question."

"Or we could go in and sit with her so she isn't alone."

Not waiting for Morgan to provide an answer, Sam pushes herself to her feet, ignoring the sudden rush of vertigo that hits her as she attempts moving off toward the hall, intent upon getting to the kitchen to check on Sadie for herself. Morgan moves to follow not long after, and Sam would be a liar if she tried to pretend she could not feel her friend's gaze drilling into the back of her head.

Sam knows she hasn't entirely succeeded in evading the question. She knows Morgan will expect an answer at some point, and will likely be stubborn enough to get it, whether Sam wants her to or not. But she does not allow that knowledge to deter her, or cause her determination to get to her sister to fade, the only thing capable of stopping her in her tracks being the sound of the door opening in the foyer just as she and Morgan are preparing to pass through.

Vin is standing there, the door shutting behind him with a soft snap. He is dirty. Disheveled, even, but clearly very much alive. Relief flares to life in Sam's chest as she catches his gaze, such that she very nearly staggers backward from the force of it all. But then she sees his expression. She puts the pieces together, between the obvious exhaustion he shows, and something else that is not all that far from regret.

He hasn't even managed to say a word yet, but Sam already knows what those words will be. What they will mean.

With Vin standing in the foyer alone, and Chris nowhere to be seen, there is really only one conclusion that can be drawn, even if it is the very last thing that Sam wants to allow herself to believe.

Chris is gone for good. He is never coming back again. What little progress Sadie has made today alone will only be all too likely to disappear as soon as she learns the truth…

And Sam doesn't have the first clue how she is supposed to even begin to pick up the pieces when everything about her world is crashing down around her.

…

Hello, everyone! And welcome to another new chapter in this AU! I'm a little surprised I managed to crank this one out like I did, because I'd initially intended on writing for another fandom entirely. But either way, I do sincerely hope you all enjoy the end result? I'm having far too much fun to stop now!

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 Guest for leaving such lovely feedback the last time around! I truly do appreciate the support so much more than you know, and I hope all of you enjoy this chapter as much as the last!