Author's Note: Oneshot. Nick's POV. Slight slash, but that should be expected by now, thanks very much.

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em.

Acknowledgements: Thank you to Sean for editing this, and thank you to Amanda for reading it over … but never actually editing it. Thanks, though.

Summary: If I could fly as fast as my thoughts travel, I'd be going faster than Albert Einstein considered possible.

Where My Mind Takes Me

Truth be told, I never really questioned why the flu appeared. How it had become one with the living of the earth so abruptly, so randomly. So perfectly.

It was just something that happened. Dangerous diseases that wiped out millions could be traced back all the way to the beginning of history. Why not now, in a modern society where travel to foreign places – or not so foreign anymore; globalization had seen to that – was as easy as obtaining a passport?

And, truly, why not in the United States? Why was this country any different than another? It was diverse; it had access to every single place on the globe; it was simple to get into, even with the terrorist attacks. As long as you weren't on the No Fly List, you could gain entrance, either by plane or boat or road.

However, despite my acceptance and lack of questions, I wonder why it had to happen to me. Sure, I haven't led a great life … wait, never mind. I've led a pretty shitty life.

My first time admitting that.

Whenever someone used to tell me that I was the Devil's spawn, that I was going to Hell for my deeds, that I was a horrid person and deserved to be keelhauled, I'd just laugh. Why would I care about those statements? Why, even, would I care about the person who was saying them to me? My mom, my dad, even my little sister had said similar sentences to me, their eyes shining, begging me to stop my life dead in its tracks, but I just continued to laugh.

I don't laugh much anymore.

To be honest, it's hard to laugh when all I see is death. Death, decay, gore, and tangible questions.

I don't believe in God. I'm not one of those people who used to believe in a higher power and when the flu hit the fan, blowing it all across our great nation –

(who actually calls it that anymore?)

– I stopped believing in God. Even to me, that sounds traitorous, like a person in the employ of a smarter, more intelligent master who used to reward his servants handsomely, but as soon as that master turned his back for a second and stopped with the rewards, the servants abandoned him.

No, I never believed.

I also am not a person who began believing in God after encountering infected people who wanted nothing more than to destroy my life as I knew it, making me one of them or just killing me. As I made my way across Savannah, I happened upon three people. All of them were stark naked, their flesh reflecting the radiant sunlight, and when they spotted me, they began screaming scripture passages.

Despite the fact that their yelling was attracting infected, I didn't kill them. They would be dead soon enough and I didn't want that on my conscience.

A conscience. Yes, that voice at the back of my head I thought I'd banished. Somehow it had returned.

It had stayed silent while I gambled away my first wife's savings. She said, tearfully, before she left me, that she'd been hoping that could have been our child's college education. There was no child, and soon I had no wife.

My conscience didn't squawk when I preyed upon my parents' goodwill, allowing them to give me money again and again, even though I had the means to work. My sister was the one who stopped them, just shy of the $100 000 mark. I haven't talked to her since, and I now realize that I probably will never be able to hear her voice one last time.

While I scammed money out of strangers – the elderly, the young, the naïve – my conscience laid quiet. During my second marriage, and then my third, it never said a word.

And now, at a point in my life where I wish it would continue to lie dormant, it returned. It would be so much easier to just forget it and continue on my own way, away from the three companions I'd run into. Ellis, Coach, and Rochelle. Three complete and utter strangers who had nothing in common with me, save the desire to live.

If I hadn't come across them in Savannah, my conscience might've gone back to sleep. It would probably have allowed me to break into people's houses and steal whatever I needed, whatever I wanted. At least it didn't stir when I killed an infected person. Thank God – or whoever might be up there, watching us like a young kid would watch an ant farm – for small miracles.

Now, I realize I've gotten a bit off topic. I believe the basis of my thoughts was why me? I haven't really answered that. I don't believe I ever will. The innocent have been killed: small children slaughtered by infected parents. I've seen it happen.

As I crept by a silent suburban townhouse, in the small backyard I'd spied a little girl, the evening light winking off her round glasses. She was crying. I'd stopped behind a large oak tree, hoping the shade would shelter me from unfriendly eyes, debating silently with myself about what I should do. Before I could come upon a conclusive answer, the girl's cries went up a couple of octaves and took on a hysterical note. Another person had entered the backyard from the open backdoor. Their hair colors were identical, so I assumed the woman was the girl's mother.

All thought of the mother being uninfected stopped when the woman picked up the child and bit into her shoulder, and in the process of bringing her mouth away, the mother ripped off a piece of the girl's fabric and part of her flesh.

The girl's shrieks stopped when her mother began to beat her against the fence. When I shut my eyes, I can still see her brown pigtails flopping in the low lighting.

So yes, the innocent have been slaughtered without a hope of survival. And, perhaps by chance, perhaps by some Divine power out there, the evil and corrupt have continued to stalk the earth. I am living proof of this.

I admit that I might be a bad person, but I wouldn't call myself evil. Corrupt? Sure. I can live with that. Guilty would also be another appropriate descriptor. Maybe if I'd acted quicker, I could have saved that child. Then again, she might have put up a fuss, which would have brought more infected, which then could've endangered my own life and hers. Or if we had somehow gotten out of that predicament, she might've been a burden. I might've had to leave her somewhere else, all alone and frightened beyond measure.

I can't see the future. I don't claim to be able to. Insight isn't in my nature, and I've dealt with that just fine. My intentions, though, were honorable when I tried to figure out what to do when I saw that kid all alone. I knew that I would've tried to protect her to the best of my abilities. I'm still a human being with morals programmed into me. Admittedly, some of them have … faded over time.

Some people may view me as heartless, as conniving, as someone who'd do well in prison. I, on the other hand, live by the saying that it's not illegal if you don't get caught. And I've never been caught. All of my, ah, ventures in money-getting and gambling haven't been to purposely go out of my way to hurt people. It's always been a byproduct, like excess carbon dioxide that comes out of a car's exhaust pipe and then adds to the greenhouse gases insulating the earth.

So why do I deserve to be stuck with three people who probably aren't going to survive this mess and will most likely get me killed? Better yet, why was I around when the sickness became popular? When the new fad was becoming a menial drone that's only command was to kill?

That I can't answer.

Another question: why have those three people selected me to lead them? Why is it me making the first move? And why did I have to develop a bond with them? It would be so much easier to not care. To be able to think "better them than me" if they died.

That thought isn't my truth anymore. It used to be, but now it isn't. I care. I don't know why. Maybe it's the fact that, all through my life, I've isolated myself from other people, trying to keep their affections for me out of my mind. I didn't want anyone to care about me, but I guess my charms worked against me in that regard.

Life's a funny thing. Now it's isolated me, and I'm the one trying not to be affected by my feelings for others. Ironic. Especially since it's more than likely that they'll all die and I'll be powerless to stop it.

I've only been with them a week. Tomorrow we're going to try to get out of the mall, but the likelihood of success is low. I've accepted this, just like I've accepted the fact that something catastrophic could possibly happen to the USA, to the whole world.

The others, they still have hope. Especially Ellis. He's adamant that we'll get out okay, that everything will somehow, inexplicably, go back to normal. He thinks that his mom's all right. He thinks that his buddy Keith is all right. God damn him, he thinks he's all right.

My heart hasn't felt so heavy in years. I never cared when the divorce papers arrived at my apartment building, ready for my signature. I never cared when my dog ran away. Hm, I could make a country song about all the things I don't care about. All I need is a pickup truck that that's got love stains on the uncovered flatbed.

Despite my unwillingness to care, or perhaps because of it, I care about Ellis more than I'm willing to admit. Rochelle and Coach don't evoke such a strong emotional response in me like Ellis does. I don't know why.

Maybe it's just his hope, which is something I've never had. I've lived off of grim determination to keep moving, even without a killer plague being on the rampage. Maybe it's how easily he smiles, which I haven't done in weeks. The last time I smiled, if my memory is correct, is when I won $100 at the slots at a casino that I can't remember the name of. Somehow, Ellis made me want to smile yesterday.

My muscles had forgotten how to smile, though, and the feeling came and went, like a bullet that had been meant for my head, but had just grazed my cheek. And just like that bullet, the feeling of wanting to smile had affected me, but not with a scar. It made me feel like there's … more to life now.

How can one person make me feel like there's more to life than just surviving? I'll be damned if I know. My parents, sister, childhood friends, teachers, random people on the street, they'd all tried to convince me that I was meant for something grander. Something better than the mean existence that I've been accustomed to.

That isn't to say that I don't know the finer things in life. I play a mean game of poker; I am a wine connoisseur; I enjoy reading anything from Stephen King – the book "Cell" comes to mind predominantly – to Jane Austen, just keep that to yourself, thanks; and I know how to please a lady. I can show her what all of her other sexual exploits have been missing. Some ladies claim my middle name is Pleasure. And, baby, if you've got big breasts, a tight ass, and are curvier than a mountain road, I'll show you why.

Yes, a woman really gets my blood boiling. Not in a love type of way, though. I have no feelings other than the most basic, animalistic lust for a woman. I'm not interested in anything else. An actual relationship? Please. Pleasure might be somewhere in my name, but Commitment sure isn't.

Now … I'm not gay. I know I'm not. I like looking at women. I fantasize about them. I'll admit it: Rochelle is a damn fine lady. However, I would sure as hell never try anything with her, lest she shoot me in the crotch. She commands my respect, and I wouldn't lower her to the level of the women I've actually had sex with. Those women were objects. I'm not above admitting that I objectify women. I'm one of those men – the kind that all women complain about after I never call them back. Rochelle isn't like that, though. I also have no feelings for her, other than friendship.

The same goes for Coach. I can't help but respect him completely. Besides, he'd have my ass on a platter if I went for Rochelle. He protects her a lot, and again, I respect that. Being the only woman with three men would be intimidating, since both Coach and I are rather dominant. Then again, Rochelle is also very domineering, and Ellis certainly is not.

We have quite the group hiding out in the mall right now. Us and the infected. A movie could be made about us, a book written about us, a game created about us.

Maybe, maybe I was meant to be here. Maybe I was meant to be with Ellis, Rochelle, and Coach. Maybe this is the time when I get my life back on track, after thirty-seven years. But, honest to God, how can one person – a kid in an adult's body – change my entire outlook on the world? How could I even go about changing my life when I'm stuck in a world eerily similar to the apocalypse?

Again, I can't answer that. I can't even answer my other questions, like how deep does the well dubbed My Feelings for Ellis go? And another one, like how far would I go to save that kid? Is he worth sacrificing myself for?

Maybe that's why I'm here. To save someone else.

I almost chuckled out loud at that thought. Almost. Me. The most selfish person on the planet giving up my life, the most precious thing to me, for someone else? Haha. Yeah, right.

But … when it comes to Ellis …

I can hear the others stirring, and I guess another night of no sleep has gone by. Soon we'll be departing, and I hope we make it. There, I said the word: hope. I have some now.

Maybe if we survive today and make it out of here, I'll be able to have another quiet night where I can spend my hours thinking, as if I'm having a conversation with an objective outsider. Maybe.

My life is just a row of maybes, strung up one beside another, and as I pass certain checkpoints, the beginning maybes are burned away, leaving only the ones that I'll come across in my travels. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Maybe I'll die today. Maybe I'll live. Maybe Rochelle will die, maybe Coach will. Maybe Ellis will expire. Maybe I'll give up my life for him. Maybe we'll all make it. Maybe we'll be rescued. Maybe none of us will survive.

Maybe there's no point in thinking about any place further than outside the safe house door. There. I should stick with that. The only light that is given to the path laid before my feet is one step ahead of me, so at least I know where I'm placing my foot.

Light. I can see light now, and it must be Ellis. He's always the first to rise. His flashlight is on, and he shines it on me. He always does this. It's always me first.

Maybe –

No. No maybes.

He grins at me.

I smile back.