What It Takes

Chapter I

"Rachel," Quinn said gently. She touched the tired singer's shoulder softly. Rachel mumbled, her brows furrowing slightly as she was still deep in much needed sleep. Quinn hesitated, smiling at just the corners of her pink lips, watching the sleeping girl. At a time like this, in a world as it was, something as little as watching someone sleep was comforting.

"Rachel, we have to get up," Quinn tried again. She rocked Rachel's shoulder a tad before sitting up straight. Sighing through her nose, she ran a hand through her disheveled, shaggy pink hair. Watching the sunrise was the best part of mornings. That and waking up crying, knowing you've made it another day and you're still alive and not infected.

The same little smile was on Quinn's face as she looked out to the eastern horizon. The first touch of pink chased the dark indigo. Soon the light would be stretching out over the sky and warmth would come to them. Sleeping on the roof at night on their current building was cold. Quinn had given Rachel everything she could to keep her warm, which was really just her weathered, studded, and dirtied jean jacket. She wanted it that way. In some ways, Quinn was glad she had Rachel with her, save all the reasons that the world was crumbling.

On cue, a guttural groan reached her distantly from the street.

Rachel began to wake up, her eyes clenching close in an attempt to keep sleep from escaping. Quinn watched a spare moment as Rachel clutched her battered jacket beneath her chin before she turned to reach behind her. On a lawn chair, Quinn selected a jet-black sniper rifle. She slid open a panel on the barrel of the sniper with a mechanical whirring and checked the ammo stock. Fit with the three bullets out of four that the sniper could contain, she closed the panel and switched off the safety with a click. The sounds finally registered to Rachel and she breathed in deeply, like emerging water, and opened her eyes confusedly.

"Quinn?" Rachel called out, an edge to her voice.

There was always an edge to her voice in the first moment of waking up.

She always called Quinn's name.

Setting the sniper rifle to the side quickly, Quinn knelt by Rachel. She caught the hand she knew Rachel was raising and brought it to her chest, holding it close, while her other hand assisted the shoulder rising off the blanketed ground as Rachel sat up. She felt so small in her hands and she pushed away any thought of another person's hands, dead or alive, on her.

Rachel felt the warm skin over Quinn's collarbone and being lifted as she sat up. Knowing the same as Quinn, that they have survived together just another day, the tears began to roll down her cheeks as she blinked away the slumber, nuzzling her nose into the crook of Quinn's neck. In unison, their arms slipped around each other, pulling one another into an embrace that had never been seen before in school, let alone any sort of gesture of affection or comfort.

It was a ritual. Quinn would rise first, her internal clock waking her nearly an hour before dawn. She would find something to eat in a storage room just a floor below, where they were still safe by a locked, metal door. She would eat, make something for Rachel, and then sit and wait. When it was time for sunrise, she would gently loosen Rachel's hold on sleep. Quinn would begin to prepare the few guns they were limited to. When Rachel would wake up in a minute's time, Quinn was there. Always there. For two weeks now. She had been there, easing Rachel up and out of panic and fear, embracing her and letting her cry, knowing just an hour ago, she had also woken up with her lips wet with her own tears but unwilling to admit how lost and scared she truly felt.

Quinn smoothed out Rachel's long chocolate-brown hair, starting from the crown of her head, down her neck, and to the ends of her hair just below her shoulder blades. Even two weeks later, all their time spent on the roof had windblown her hair free of most dirt or debris, and it was still nice to the touch. Not that Quinn ever thought about running her fingers through it. She only did this because she found early on that doing this motion soothed the smaller girl, like she was drawing out all the bottled emotions she collected during the night. She did this several times before Rachel sniffled and pulled away, wiping her only slightly dirty sleeve on her cheek. She looked like such a little girl, who had fallen and scraped her knee, and Quinn was just there to make sure she was okay. It worried Quinn. How could she survive? How could she survive without her?

"We can't last much longer," Rachel whispered. Her hands fell into her lap, a motion Quinn watched and saw as defeat.

"Eat," Quinn avoided, placing a packaged muffin and some water in her hands on her thighs. She turned back around and picked up the sniper she had set to the side, hoping to forget what she was just thinking and how weak Rachel sounded. Moving to the edge of the three story building's roof, she got down on her knees and swung the long barrel over the ledge. Below was a small gathering of what the world was plagued with.

Zombies.

Another report ricocheted off the surrounding Lima structures. The targeted zombie crumpled to the street, half of his decayed head blown clean away. Quinn sat back from leaning forward into the scope of the sniper, blowing air up into the hair that had fallen into her eyes. It was the last of the small gathering but in a few hours, more would find their way to them, and if not them, then some other survivors. It seemed if she could push away the immediate fright of their situation, then she would end up thinking about people she didn't even know were out there and how they were faring.

To Quinn, if two high school girls- a prim, proper, immaculate singer and a rebellious, angry, punk delinquent- could survive, so could anyone else. Besides, their weapons and stock were dropped off after Quinn flagged down a loaded helicopter in the first week. There were people out there, struggling to survive, fight the infection, save others.

To say things got worse from there would be hard to say, but they did.

The airman that was dropped off with them from the local base was infected, unbeknownst to everyone. He suffered a bite to the calf after plowing through a mob but in fear of being blown to bits, "conveniently" forgot the wound. The short span of time before he died was spent teaching only Quinn about the small range of weapons gifted to them. Rachel refused. She could stomach even holding a pistol. Quinn took it upon herself and thankfully, was a quick study. She could chalk some of it up to knowing she had to fight for her life as well as Rachel's, and tried to find some shred of anger that she had to cover Berry's ass… but none was there. She knew she wanted to protect her.

When the airman finally died, abrupt and appearing to just rest his eyes, and the few minutes it took for him to turn, Quinn was loading a M9 in order to occupy herself. He awoke with a new feverish behavior, so new, no noise could reach his vocal chords and he was silent as he prowled Quinn.

Zombies, as it turned out, were of average speed when first turned, and he advanced quickly on her. Rachel's scream saved Quinn's life, and upon turning around, Quinn changed her own with the first shot of a gun she ever took.

One round to his forehead.

"Quinn?" Rachel's soft came from behind, through the haze of a reverie.

Quinn looked over her shoulder, lowering the muzzle of the sniper. Rachel stood uncertainly behind her, still wearing the same plaited skirt and long-sleeved Oxford button up, her eyes dull. Quinn hated seeing that, to see the girl's eyes already mirroring her defeat, so she didn't look directly at them. She stared at her nose, her mouth, and fought down any sort of feelings that cropped up at weird times, covering it with a layer of disdain she used to reserve for the girl in high school.

"Perhaps we should go downstairs?"

That was an idea. Quinn bit her lip and looked out over the empty street, grateful to be looking elsewhere. Not a single living thing besides the two of them could be seen. The pinkette stood, dropping the sniper down to one hand, and turned to Rachel. She couldn't keep up that "disdain" she thought she had stored to be taken out when needed, and gave a half-hearted smile, nodding. She moved over to the lawn chair, set the sniper down, and picked up the same M9 she used against the airman, popping the cartridge and checking the magazine. When she looked behind, Rachel was still standing by the edge of the roof, her hands together at her stomach, picking at her cuticles no doubt. She didn't seem to be staring at Quinn, just zoning out with a blank expression. Quinn palmed the cartridge back into its slot.

"Stay on the roof, Rachel," Quinn instructed firmly. No response. "Okay?"

"Okay."

Quinn hesitated, and then stepped around the chair, heading for the door leading back into the building. A key sat on a brick near the door. They couldn't chance the metal door downstairs somehow breaking from a couple zombies and then literally leaving the next door open for them. Quinn unlocked the door with a forced obliviousness to her shaking hands, set the key back down on the brick, and took a deep breath to calm her nerves. She didn't bother glancing back to know Rachel was watching her. She knew the singer was afraid of never seeing her again. Or worse— having to kill her. She knew because she felt the same way.

Quinn would never let that happen though. She would never leave Rachel to fend for herself and there was nothing in existence that could. Quinn was the only thing keeping Rachel alive and like hell Quinn would die before her.

Revised.

-x