WE ARE LEGEND II: A BALM IN GILEAD

Chapter 1

by

Lacadiva

Disclaimer: I miss White Collar sooooo much…oops, sorry, wrong disclaimer. No infringement is intended by the production of this story. All rights remain in the hands of Jeff Eastin and USA. It's so hard to say goodbye to yesterday. Au Revoir was not enough…

NOTE: For Halloween I thought I'd try and do the long-promised part two to this story. Please don't get mad at me for not finishing other stories. It'll happen. I'm a freelancer, and we have long bouts of employment followed by longer bouts of unemployment and all you can think about is where next month's rent is coming from. Tiny pockets of reprieve provide too little time for fanfic writing, but sometimes, you have to follow the passion of the moment. This story was one of those moments. I hope you'll think it's worth it, and will review and let me know.

Rating: PG13/R for violence.

SUMMARY: AU – Crossover with I Am Legend: Neal, Peter and Elizabeth journey in search of the promised safe haven in Vermont, but it's a long, soul-shattering journey…and winter is coming fast…and so is El's baby. As if things couldn't get worse, Neal gets bitten by one of the infected. Can Peter pull the trigger to spare his friend before the painful, violent transformation begins? And, is what awaits our survivors in Vermont safer than what's beyond their protective walls?

~WC~

The young doctor's assistant pushed the microphone stand closer to him, scraping the old wood table. The thick black cord pulled taut – that was as far as it could reach. Close enough, if Neal leaned in just bit. Movement caused his aching shoulders and back to hurt, to burn with old agonies and recent wounds. Every part of him felt pain, but he was growing used to it. At least he was still alive.

This was still a mystery to him…as well as to his new hosts.

He rubbed his arm, which was aching and seriously bruised not from his ordeal, but from the many needles they had used to extract blood from him since his arrival. They'd taken every kind of sample imaginable, from saliva to urine, even hair and skin samples and the hair from the mountain-man-like beard he was sporting upon his arrival. They swept up and kept his fallen whiskers after he'd shaved.

The entire community was in an uproar because of his arrival…and survival. While they hadn't told him anything so far, he was grateful that they had taken his claims seriously and not ousted him yet, or worst shot him dead.

He touched the black foam windscreen of the microphone gently with a finger. Not because of a desire to check the integrity of their somewhat slapdash technology. Deep down, Neal just wanted to make sure all of this was real.

Was all of this truly real?

The warmth of the small wood framed room (he'd grown so used to bone aching cold)…

The smell of burning wood emanating from the small, old fashioned, pot bellied stove…

The comfort of the sturdy hardwood chair under him…

The smell arising from the of cup of instant coffee sitting within his reach...

The feel of clean skin, clean clothing, taut bandages on his wounds, and warm, dry socks inside the old borrowed Timberlands on his feet…

His long wet hair was combed all the way back and plastered to his neck as it dried, and his sensitive skin was still prickling from shaving off that thick, two-month-old beard.

He closed his eyes briefly at the memory of the humble but hot meal he ate ravenously less than an hour ago. It still rumbled in his sensitive yet satisfied stomach and still lingered on his taste buds: boiled potatoes and chicken, field greens, pan fried bread and a cobbler of canned mixed berries sweetened with honey straight from the comb. He had not eaten like that in months.

There was a small but inviting cot in the corner made with clean white sheets, two army blankets and a semi-puffy pillow waiting for him.

And there was an unspoken promise that the nightmare might actually be over.

At least, he hoped it was over.

He also hoped this was not the start of a new terror. These people, these seemingly good people who were claiming to be his new benefactors were playing their cards so very close to the vest that Neal had no choice but to be suspicious. He had to play his own cards just right if he expected to survive.

"Just speak naturally," the young woman said encouragingly. "We don't care how you tell the story. It doesn't have to be in order. We just need the facts as you remember them, everything you remember about your ordeal out there."

She was a natural beauty, this woman, and pleasing to the eye. Not an ounce of make up was used or needed to create the gentle contours of her richly dark face. Her dark eyes were wide with wonder as she gazed at Neal, as if she were in the presence of someone both famous and notorious. She was wearing all white, like a doctor, with a well-used stethoscope dangling around her neck. She didn't introduce herself as a doctor, but gave only a first name. Neal forgot it moments later, so overwhelmed was he by the day's unrelenting events, and so desperate to rest, to sleep…

He was overwhelmed by everything from the moment they reached the gates of Gilead (the name given to this Vermont haven/research facility, the place promised in all the radio broadcasts). They were ordered by shouting, heavily armed military guards in environment suits to surrender their own weapons and backpacks and lay on the ground face down.

They were thoroughly searched for hidden weapons, then sprayed with a foul disinfectant that burned their skin and eyes temporarily.

The guards of Gilead questioned them, then separated them, forcing Peter in one direction, Neal in another, Elizabeth in yet another. She cried and fought when they took the baby from her arms, wrapped him in a fresh blanket and carried him away without explanation. Peter nearly got himself shot when he attempted to intervene, but the officer in charge, face hidden by his environment suit, begged Peter and Elizabeth to allow it, and promised they would all be reunited once they had all been cleared by the Senior Medical Officer, and there was no sign of infection in any of them.

Any act of aggression, they were warned, especially disobedience, would be deemed a safety threat to Gilead, and they would be, at best, ousted. At worst, they would be executed.

They lead Neal inside Way Station D, they called it - a tiny windowless, dirt floor room made of unadorned dry wall and lit by a few dim Coleman lamps.

"Strip," he was ordered by one of the environment-suited guards.

He did, hands shaking as he peeled out of his dried blood-caked hoodie, then fought with shirt buttons. When he removed the threadbare garment and they took note of the poorly healing wounds on his neck and shoulder, it took a mountain of convincing to keep the guards from shooting him on the spot.

Neal held up his hands and begged them, "Please, please…don't shoot…I can explain…Just give me a minute to explain…!"

And he told them the story as quickly as he could, hoping they would be willing to believe him.

It was, after all, and despite all doubts, quite true.

The head guard sent for a Doctor, who arrived visibly nervous. She was covered from head to toe in heavy white canvas coveralls accented with small squares of silver electrical tape to repair the tiniest of nicks in her well-worn protective gear. It was her job to verify the age of his wounds.

She approached Neal cautiously, as if moving in on a rabid dog, a hand reaching out to tilt Neal's head to the side to get a better view, and hoping he would not bite. With hands wearing three layers of surgical gloves, she touched the mottled skin, felt the hardness of the scabbing that was developing and stepped back as if she'd seen a ghost.

"When were you bitten?" she asked shakily through her surgical mask.

Neal's head was swimming from fever, from hunger, from exhaustion pain. He had to think about it.

"About a week ago," he said. "Give or take."

"Take him to exam room one," she demanded, and as she raced out, she shouted over a shoulder:

"No one talks to him or touches him without the Director's permission."

And then all hell broke loose.

They dragged him, shirtless and shivering, all skin and bones, contusions and scars into the exam room, a separate hall that was as well equipped as the finest hospitals in New York before the world collapsed under horror of the Ripen virus. The Guards all remained as a legion of doctors entered and without a word to him, without apology or explanation, began their thorough examination.

They were not kind.

Neither were they informative. He asked over and over, "Why are you doing this? What are you looking for? If you could just tell me…"

After hours of having every part of him tested, x-rayed, scraped, and checked, Neal lay fetal position on a cold exam table wondering if dying from the wound that so fascinated his torturers would have been a better fate.

They were mostly astounded by the poorly healed bite marks, staring at Neal and whispering to themselves as if they'd found the Holy Grail.

Or a cure to the Krippen Virus.

They questioned him about it, over and over. He told them the story, over and over. When the doctors had grown weary, or satisfied, they left him.

Neal remained locked in the operating theatre for several hours without explanation. He passed out at some point, but was awaken mere minutes later. More doctors had arrived and set about taking more samples, examining him even more thoroughly than before.

This time, when they were done, two medicos pulled him up and walked him to a shower stall. They stood holding under the steamy spray. Neal was angered and humiliated at their presence in the shower with him until the hot water found his skin and muscles.

At that point, everything else was forgotten.

He closed his eyes and heard a sound that he realized was coming from him…he was sobbing. When was the last time he'd showered? He could not remember, but this felt…astonishing.

Once done, they wrapped him in a blanket and helped him shave. They helped him put on clean pants, shirt and socks. He was lead to the wooden room where the cot sat, inviting him to rest. But before he could reach it, more assistants in white entered, bearing food, water, coffee and smiles. Gone where the masks and heavy environment suits.

"What's happening?" Neal asked. "Why isn't anybody telling me anything? Where are my friends? What's with all the exams? I'm telling you the truth…"

Neal begged for answers but none where given him. He was only assured that everything would be fine if he would only cooperate.

He sat at the small table, the tray of food in front of him. The smell of it overwhelmed him, made him sick to the stomach at first. But he dug in…

And now Neal was siting in this small room, within the Gilead compound, exhausted, fed, but without knowledge of how his friends were doing or what was going to happen to him. Neal was, despite his full belly, quite righteously pissed.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked the doctor's assistant.

"Just tell your story."

"And…why is this necessary…"

The young woman smiled a touch and he instantly remembered her name.

"…Janice?"

"If what you said earlier is true, then you're a miracle, Mr. Caffrey."

"Neal," he said, hating such formalities. Some thing never changed. "And I'm not a miracle. Lucky…maybe."

"We need to keep an accurate account, see what patterns exist in your story," she continued. "If what you say is true…"

"It's true…"

"…then we cannot afford to lose this knowledge. You could help save hundreds, maybe thousands of lives. You could probably save the world."

Neal shook his head at her hyperbole. But she was standing by it. She believed it.

"When can I see my friends?"

She smiled again, ever so reassuringly, and reached out and touched his hand. Neal didn't detect any phoniness or attempt at manipulation. But he was still suspicious. Always suspicious.

"As soon as possible," Janice said. "I promise."

"They're okay?"

"As we speak, they're being thoroughly examined by the doctors. Blood tests, delousing, treatment for dehydration and malnutrition. They'll have to stay quarantined for three days. They'll bathe, eat, and rest. And soon they'll be introduced to Gilead. They are safe, and receiving the best of care."

"What about the baby?"

"The baby's fine. You really shouldn't worry, Mr. Caffrey."

Being told he shouldn't worry always made Neal feel that he should indeed worry. He dropped his head, weariness getting the better of him. His wrecked body was demanding sleep, a great deal of sleep.

"All right, let's do this," he said, and tried to pull the stubborn mic closer.

Janice depressed the PLAY and RECORD buttons on the old cassette player, then nodded to Neal to begin.

He rubbed his face, feeling new stubble already peeking through his skin. His right hand, as it had from odd habit lately, reached up and inside his shirt to touch the mottled , poor healed flesh along his shoulder and neck. This is why Gilead had kept Neal locked away. Now he had to find a way to leverage it. He took a deep breath to steady himself.

"My name is Neal George Caffrey," he said. "This is my story."

End Chapter 1

Thank you so much for reading. If you're moved at all, or curious to read more, I hope you'll respond by reviewing. Chapters 2 and 3 are already done, and will be posted over the course of this week. Las chapter I hope will be posted by or before the 31! Happy Halloween, y'all!