Disclaimer: Own not. Profit not. Sue not.

AN: Welcome to something new! There will be more Laws, but I wanted to try something different. Here it is. Enjoy.

O God of Earth and Altar,

bow down and hear our cry.

Our Earthly rulers falter, our people drift and die.

The walls of gold entomb us, the swords of scorn divide.

Take not thy thunder from us, but take away our pride.

G.K. Chesterton, 1906 'O God of Earth and Altar'

Rachel would always remember that last sunset. It was practically burned into her memory. She could recall all the colors - purples, reds, oranges, and yellows - and if she closed her eyes she could almost feel the bite of the breeze and the smell of the city. If she managed to lose herself completely in the remembrance she would swear she could taste the bittersweetness of her favorite red wine lingering on her tongue, or the moisture of the air as she took in a deep breath before she sighed.

It was blissful, peaceful really, and she had been completely unaware and uncaring of anything else that might have been happening elsewhere. Rachel Berry, Broadway star, was only concerned in that moment with that moment. It had been perfect - picture perfect. The next morning would bring phone calls and performances and flashing lights and applause, but in the sunset she found something special, a closure to the good things of her day and a final goodbye to the bad.

It was the last time she ever felt completely safe and at peace, that day before the world erupted and fell into chaos.

Before the outbreak they now "jokingly" referred to as z-day.

Sunset had been her favorite time of day; she loved seeing the lights come on in the city, her city. That was when New York really came to life. Cars turned into rivers of yellow-white and red lights, like blood running through the veins of the city, and the buildings lit up and glittered like stars.

Like magic.

Sitting on the roof of her beloved, battered Bronco in the middle of a desert, she still found the sunset beautiful, but now in the way one would consider a prowling tiger to be. In her new world nighttime belonged to predators who roamed free, stalking through the wasted remains of humanity. It was not a time for people - for the living - anymore. Rachel had pretty good vision, but she couldn't see in the dark. None of them could. Instead she had to rely on her other senses when the light went out, especially her hearing - and she heard everything. Her damned ears were sensitive; it had been a gift when it came to music, but at night when monsters crept in thick shadows it was a curse. Her imagination could take anything and turn it into what she feared most. The slightest of sounds had her body flooding with adrenaline, muscles tensing close to the point of pain, because she knew and her body knew: stay alert, stay alive.

No one could ever be safe when the dead walked.

Reaching up, she shoved her aviators up to sit on top of her head and sighed heavily. In her other hand her one constant companion warmed her palm. For the longest time the pistol had felt foreign and absolutely wrong in her hands. She'd never liked guns, or violence, but since the outbreak she didn't feel right without one. Thankfully she'd learned to shoot fast enough to save her life and over time had become deadly accurate with her treasured nine millimeter. It had bothered her at first, her dependence on such an object. Like a child with a stuffed animal she carried it everywhere, slept with it, and loved it - even named it.

Soon enough it no longer bothered her.

Absentmindedly, she toyed with the weapon, ejecting the magazine and slamming it back home, over and over. The sound and feel of it was comforting, better than any lullaby. Click, slam! Click, slam!

Tonight the convoy was more subdued than normal. They'd lost another one at their disastrous last gas stop in cozy little Marathon, Texas. There were so few left, down to eleven counting her, and only three of those had been with her since the beginning. Right after she'd 'borrowed' the Bronco and started her way across the country.

Those days… she remembered them even more clearly than her time on Broadway. Endless hours spent driving, looking, and daydreaming about finding her friends and family. To be reunited with one familiar face, that was all she'd wanted. She just wanted to find one person who knew her, really knew her. Not just Rachel Berry, the actress. Those first few days she'd reminded herself of high school Rachel. She was different now, of course, smarter, harder, far less trusting, and certainly not as naive. She'd always been strong, she thought, but still a lot had changed. The desert had seen to that, slowly stripping and rebuilding her. The things that she'd seen - horrific, twisted things that even her worst nightmares couldn't compare to - had been too much for the Rachel Berry of Before. Her evolution had been painful, from the squeamish, spoiled diva to what she was now. She'd had to learn how to protect herself and those who had started to depend on her, and in the course found that her heart no longer sat on her sleeve for anyone to take a piece of. The fact that she couldn't save everyone had been a lesson very hard learned. No matter how many times over it she still couldn't keep from breaking down sobbing in the back of the Bronco after someone was lost. She tried to keep face around her people, wanting to be the strong, fearless leader for them, but it was something she still had to work on. After all she was still human, still Rachel, and part of her wasn't sure that completely losing her attachment to life was a great idea. How much could she amputate from her soul before she was nothing more than a shell of who she used to be? And what then would be the difference between her and the sorry creatures who hungered for them?

Five years had passed, five years full of tears and sweat and so much blood. Too much blood. A lot of it on her violence worn hands.

The only thing Rachel clung to, the only thing she really had left to cling to, was hope. It lingered on inside of her, fragile but persistent. It refused to die, struggling against the desolation of her situation. A light that would not go out.

She laid her pistol, Mick, against her stomach and rubbed her freed fingers against her sternum, using the contact to help rein her thoughts back in.

Her eyes strayed from the dying rays of sunlight to the huddle of bedraggled survivors around a small fire - her people, her family, her merry band of misfits. They were all filthy and tired, worn from the constant travel and beatings from both sun and sand. She knew them all, their names and their stories. The tallest of the figures was Ethan, the closest thing she had to a best friend. He reminded her of her father with his dark skin and rumbling voice. A towering bear of a man, Ethan had been a cop in Detroit; she'd picked him up and three others he'd saved. When she introduced herself as Rachel Berry, the singer, he'd taken her hand and said that she was a warrior, she just hadn't known it yet. He told her that who they had been didn't matter anymore, and that they were all new, born again, getting a second chance at life. Even if it wasn't the life they would have chosen.

At the time she'd wanted to scoff at his words. It had seemed a strange thing to say after just meeting someone, even if that someone had just saved your life from reanimated corpses. Now that conversation held a special place in her heart, and whenever she felt like a failure and wanted to scream to the heavens that she was just a fucking Broadway singer she would remember Ethan's words and the conviction with which he'd said them. He'd meant it, he still meant it, and Rachel loved him for it.

Rachel slid her palm up from her chest and rubbed at the back of her neck, wincing at the tension she felt there. Sleeping in the cab of the Bronco was not exactly the best thing for a person, nor was traveling endless hours with the constant tension they all had to deal with. Every day felt like it could be their last – because it could. It lead to more than body aches. Rachel was not immune to that either; she'd had her fair share of temper flare ups, though she hadn't done any "diva storm outs" in a long time. Ethan tended to sense an oncoming fit and steal her away from prying eyes so she could take it out on whatever they had handy. Sometimes she beat her Bronco with her fists, ranting and yelling until Ethan stopped her, and sometimes... sometimes he let her cry until she couldn't anymore. They all needed an outlet of some sort to keep them sane, something to keep them feeling alive, and when Rachel's threatened to drown her Ethan was her lifesaver pointing her back to shore.

Reminding her of her true outlet.

"Imagine there's no Heaven," Rachel sang softly, letting the stress fall away as she lost herself in her music. "It's easy if you try. No Hell below us, above us only sky..."

"Rachel?"

Her voice tapered off as she bent over the edge of her perch, smiling tiredly down at Kevin. He was a tiny waif of a man, the most ridiculous and complete cliché of a computer technician.

"That's my name."

"Are you going to eat tonight?" His blue eyes looked so hopeful, and she caught the worry in his voice.

"I suppose if I say no you'll just guilt me into it," she responded with an exaggerated eye roll. They were running low on food - they both knew it - and she'd gone to skipping meals to make sure that everyone else could eat. She was certain that she could spare it, and the children in their group needed it more anyway. With a huff she slipped her long, jean clad legs over the side and pushed herself off the roof. The sand caught her and she held her arms up like an Olympic gymnast after sticking a perfect ten landing.

"I give it a three," Kevin said, holding on to his glasses as he nimbly dodged her playful punch.

"Whatever, hater. Lead me to the food."

Their food consisted of whatever canned goods they could scavenge; there was no such thing as "fresh" anything anymore. Rachel had winced at every meal for a long time, unaccustomed to eating like that. It had wreaked havoc on her for quite some time, but veganism was a luxury she simply didn't have any more.

Still, she took her can with a small smile for Kevin and wandered back to her vehicle, waving at the troop of kids playing with a ragged soccer ball.

With her dinner opened (pork 'n beans, she'd noted with a sigh) she sat back against a tire and rubbed at her arms. Having never been in a desert before she'd been rather unhappy to learn that it was actually quite cold at night, and sometimes even during the day if the wind kicked up enough. She didn't know what season they were in, but summer seemed out of the question with how fucking chilly it got. Her jacket was inside on the passenger seat where she'd left it the night before, leaving her in her once white tank top to face the chill.

Rolling her eyes at herself she shook her head and then began to yank her hair back into a ponytail. Forget about her fancy hair products and other hygiene items, hair ties were precious things. She'd nearly cried in frustration after breaking her last one. Her hair had gotten long and even though they trimmed it as best they could with an old pair of scissors it was still a lot; she hated getting the strands of ebony in her food.

Especially in the pork 'n beans. That smell lingered and they didn't exactly have access to showers or enough water to waste on something as simple as getting clean. Unless it was absolutely necessary, they waited for rain storms or sometimes streams, rivers, or creeks - any body of water really - to bathe.

With a tilt of her head Rachel dumped some of her orangey colored "dinner" into her mouth and didn't bother with chewing, just swallowing as quickly as possible. It may not twist her stomach in knots any more, but that didn't mean it tasted any better. The can became empty a lot faster than she'd anticipated and instead of satisfaction at a full stomach, she felt only guilt.

Always with the guilt. Her meager meal could have been saved to feed someone else as their supplies dwindled. They'd have to try and find another place to search for food soon, and when they did the chances of losing another person were high. No matter how careful they were it was a probability that she couldn't avoid, and the worst part was the thought that it would mean one less starving belly.

Her mood fell further as she scowled at the empty can in her hand, hurling it as far away from her as she could launch it.

"Hey, Xena," Ollie greeted as he cautiously approached. She jumped and sheepishly wiggled her fingers at him, hoping he hadn't seen her disagreement with her dinner. He ruffled his curly hair and then pulled the Yankees cap snugly back over the unruly nest. "You ready for your performance?"

"I was born ready," she quipped automatically. Accepting the hand he held down towards her she let him pull her up to her feet.

Ollie was referring to the broadcast they made every time they stopped to make camp. He had a mobile radio set up in his fifteen passenger van and Rachel felt that they should take the time to reach out to any others who might still be fighting to survive. It had worked, too. They'd picked up five who'd heard their transmissions and come running for the small beacon of hope.

If there was one thing that had stayed always constant in her life, it was her love of music. She'd never stopped singing. Lyrics remained in her memory while other things slipped away. She sang at night sometimes, around the fire while everyone ate, and it was Ethan who'd suggested she sing over the radio.

Never able to back down from an opportunity to share her voice, she'd readily agreed, and now she did every night. They'd send their initial message: where they were, where they were headed the next day, and an invitation to join them, and then Rachel would sing.

She hoped that the music might bring some form of comfort to anyone who could hear it.

"What's the song tonight boys?" she asked with more enthusiasm than necessary.

"Becca asked for 'Amazing Grace'," Ollie said, inclining his head towards the young girl on the far side of camp.

"I can do that." Rachel climbed into the van after him and rubbed her hands together. "One of these days if we can find a notebook and pen, I should write some lyrics down. We could have our very own Hymnal of the Apocalypse."

Ollie snorted, fiddling with the radio. "Rhianna never appeared in any Hymn book I've ever seen."

"Pity," Rachel murmured as he handed her the microphone. "If there's anyone out there listening to this we can help you. Our current position is..."

TBC...