"No! You killed him! You bitch you killed him!" Tears streamed down her face as she screamed and struggled, shouting for the boys to let her go, cursing at Santana, screaming out her anguish. No one said anything. They let her fight, let her get it all out. When finally she fell silent, her voice shredded and weak, Blaine and Finn released her.

"C'mon, we can't stay out here," Mercedes said quietly, pulling Quinn into her and along onto the road.

"I had to do it," Santana said quietly. Mike nodded.

"We know," Finn added, reaching to take the gun. Santana clung to it, unwilling to relinquish it just yet, as if by releasing the gun she was admitting that she had shot her friend. She turned to Finn with a blank look on her face. She needed the gun. She needed to hold it just a little longer, just until she believed what she said – that there was no other choice. Finn relaxed his hand, removing it from the gun.

Then there was silence. Long, echoing silence. The group kept together better than before, careful not to let anyone fall behind or ahead. They couldn't lose anyone else. They couldn't. Artie, whose wheelchair had been left behind when the Infected attacked, was passed between those strong enough to carry him. The road shone in the early morning sun, the leaves of the trees shimmered with light, and the ground beneath their feet crunched, crumbled, and sank with the damp residue of the storm.

There was nothing. There was, in fact, a lot of nothing. Space. The landscape transitioned between open farmland and dense, dead woods. There were no cars, no more buildings, no signs of life at all. The air was still and thick as the left-over water hung around them, dampening their breaths and their brows.

And it was silent. No birds chirping, no creatures skittering across the asphalt, no bugs buzzing in the air. It was as if they were the only living things remaining on the entire planet. The empty branches of the trees twisted in sharp angles and sharp points, taunting them, threatening them. No one spoke because no one knew what to say.

Quinn was a mess. Tears ran down her face faster than she could wipe them away, not that she was trying. Her gaze was distant, vacant, and she wasn't watching where she was going. She had to be led along the path, guided blindly. She no longer cared where she was going, or what she was running from. At first she was angry; at the Infect, at Santana, at the world. The anger, however, quickly gave way to sadness. Overwhelming, soul-encompassing sadness. A year ago she'd had no idea who Sam Evans was and yet here she was, falling to pieces over his sudden disappearance from her life.

Last year, when Quinn had been kicked out of her house and was shuffled between Finn's and Puck's Mercedes had been the one to take her in. The two remained close, bonded indefinitely and intensely, and it was she who found herself dragging Quinn along down the road towards the great abyss and unknown that expanded in front of them. But Mercedes couldn't find the words to make Quinn feel better, couldn't muster any small amount of hope, and so she remained silent, helping her to carry on, and helping to carry her.

Despite the fact that he'd broken up with her last year and was currently dating Rachel, Finn couldn't help but feel that familiar pull towards Quinn. She was hurting and he wanted to comfort her. He wanted to be the one leading her, carrying her, helping her move forward. He wanted to be the one holding her and telling her it would be ok. She was his first love, after all, and that was never going to change. But he couldn't do any of it, not with Rachel so close. And he loved Rachel, he did, but Quinn needed him and he knew that Rachel wouldn't understand. So he said nothing, he did nothing, and he felt far too much.

Rachel knew. Of course Rachel knew. Rachel always knew, somewhere, deep inside, that Finn would always pick Quinn over her. Always. Quinn was prettier, and mom popular and, she had to admit, less annoying and needy. She could feel the distance between them, despite the fact that she currently clung to Finn's arm. She held his hand, but Quinn held his attention and, more importantly, his heart.

After a division of no more than a yard walked Mike, with Puck nearby, carrying Artie on his back. Mike and Puck said nothing, exchanging glances when it was time to switch off, time to shift Artie from one back to the other. Neither spoke, conserving the energy and focusing on the path ahead and the weight – literal and figurative – on their shoulders.

Artie felt horrible. He felt responsible. It was his fault they were moving so slowly, his fault that they were taking so long and, therefore, it was his fault that Sam was infected. And now, now that his wheelchair had been left behind, a casualty of the attack, he was depriving the group of two of their strongest members, two of their protectors. If the Infected attacked now they wouldn't stand a chance, and it would all be because of him. They were all going to die because of him. He was too disgusted with himself to speak – to thank or warn his friends, to tell them the thoughts running through his head, to ask them to leave him and carry on. And so he was silent.

Santana, too, felt guilty. Logically she knew that what she'd done was right, that Sam needed to be…taken care of….before things got out of hand, but that didn't help. She clung to the gun as if it were a security blanket, hoping irrationally that a group of infected would attack so she could kill them, too, and prove to the others that what she'd done had been the right thing to do, that she'd had no choice. She watched Quinn trudge along and knew it was her fault, and not in the normal "I called you out on your bullshit life, deal with it" way. Even with the knowledge that it was necessary Santana couldn't shake the image of Sam's face from her mind, the acceptance, the pleading, the knowledge that he life was over. Santana would see that face for the rest of her life.

Santana was flanked by Tina and Brittany, both watching warily and standing by, waiting for Santana's tough exterior to crack and expose the terror and distraught resting just beneath the surface. They exchanged glances from time to time, but mostly they watched Santana and they watched the road ahead.

Kurt and Blaine finished up the hodgepodge parade of despair. Kurt's eyes traveled over each member, checking one by one, before continuing to scan the area for Infected, glance quickly at Blaine, and repeat the process. Over and over. It was his fault, they'd come for him. If they hadn't come to Dalton they wouldn't be here. Sam wouldn't be dead and they wouldn't be walking through the countryside, utterly alone. Blaine squeezed Kurt's hand from time to time, trying to feel connected. He'd never felt so alienated and out of place. The group was mourning one of their number and were running towards home. But Blaine? Blaine didn't belong. He knew he didn't belong and yet Kurt held some sort of magnetism that Blaine could not deny. And so he continued to follow.

By the time the sun was high in the sky they were all tired. No one had slept well the night before and the trip was starting to take its toll. On top of everything the scenery was so redundant and repetitive that they felt as though they'd made no progress; they were Sisyphus* and Lima was the top of the hill.

"We can't just keep walking," Tina finally said, a sense of hopelessness taking over her words.

"We have to," Kurt said, determination pushing him.

"At some point we have to do something with Artie, we can't carry him forever," Mike added. The others nodded.

"There's a hospital around here somewhere," Blaine said quietly, not wanting to interrupt. "We should be able to make it before dark," he added once the group had turned their attention towards the Warbler.

They stopped but no one spoke.

"We head for the hospital," Finn finally said. "We can get Artie a wheelchair, get some supplies, maybe even set up camp for the night." Again the others nodded. They paused for a moment, not speaking, not moving, and barely breathing. A silent prayer passed between them all – God, please let the hospital be close. And let the path be clear.

And so they walked.

And walked.

And walked.

Until finally they saw it – a sign on the side of the road; Hospital, 1m.

And then they ran.