Criminal Minds 1. Preface

**A/N: **I purchased **Cell **by Stephen King sometime last week and just finished it today and I was not at all pleased by the vague ending but I enjoyed the story enough to be hit by inspiration to make my own little story of a zombie apocalypse or at least a short premise of it but as you have come to see, I haven't exactly been able to finish any of my stories I have posted up here...so far at least. I'm still working on them, don't worry.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Criminal Minds or the characters.

**Warnings: **A/U, contains supernatural elements, traces of OOC throughout the story, violence (certainly a lot of action), no/little hints of romance, grammar/spelling errors (because no one can escape typos), cursing, and possible deaths of cannon characters. This story will also contain some OCs if it does turn out to be an epic. You have been warned.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**If the World Ended Today**

**.**

**Summary:**

Zombie fiction: Hotch stood immobile; his face was pale and sweat dripped down his chin. Beside him, Reid stared bug-eyed at the man with the graying hair. The man moaned and started to limp forward, completely oblivious to his wounds. Team-centric.

**.**

**.**

**Preface**

**.**

**.**

**Hotch **peered over at the little group – _his _little group – huddled in the corner of the office. He counted the heads of four and realized, with plenty alarm, that there were still several agents missing. He rubbed absently at the bridge of his nose, feeling undesirable exhaustion kicking in, screaming at him to hurry and lie down (but he, of course, couldn't).

Then suddenly the soft pads of footsteps echoed in the hallway and Hotch spun back around so fast, he nearly stumbled forward and the grip on his gun loosened even more and he almost dropped it for a second time that day. Luckily, he was still in his right mind to hold it with both his hands – even if the said hands were shaking like a drug addict's and he had to double his focus to keep it together – and he heard someone from behind him take a few steps forward until his shoulder brushed lightly on the other's. Then the sound of Reid's voice cut sharply into the air like a saw and Hotch almost jumped in mild alarm. "We're going to make it out of here, Hotch." His tone was gentle – like a father addressing a child – and voice soft. "Relax. Remember what you told me before?"

Hotch tried to relax, tried to hold onto the gun and keep his eyes steady on the door but then there was a loud moan coming from behind it and his stoic façade was starting to crumble. It was quickly followed by a high-pitched (inhumane) shriek and it took all of Hotch to keep it under control. "What did I tell you?" he managed out.

He heard Reid take in a deep breath – a sharp, controlled breath. "Front sight, trigger press, follow through," he recited carefully, as if a student reminding a senile professor of the lecture they had the day before. "We'll find them, Hotch. We'll get out and find them."

The moans and wails and shrieks became louder and the pounding of feet (several pairs of feet, Hotch was positive) seemed to have gathered right behind the door. Oh God, their only barricade – the only entrance and exit to their little hideout – and now it was blocked by those _things _out there. Would they ever be able to leave this place (his fucking office!)? He bit the inside of his lip and watching the shadow of a head just behind the door, he aimed his gun dead center (or what he hoped was the center of it) and with the 'front sight – trigger press – follow through' chant on repeat in his head like a broken record player, he brought his fingers down on the trigger – stumbling slightly and wincing in his head when he did so – and pulled, hoping to God or whatever was out there that it would hit the intended target.

Immediately, the sounds of cracking glass filled the air, along with a terrified "**Shit**" from the group's little corner in the office. Hotch ducked behind his desk as hundreds of pieces of glass sprayed out every which way (most hurdling toward them) and he saw Reid leap down to the ground near him as well, hands going to cover his head as he landed at Hotch's feet. Both their guns were dropped to the floor between the desk and the corner, almost completely forgotten in the crossfire of the fragments of glass.

Breathing heavily, Hotch glanced back at the others still huddled together behind him, Reid and his desk. "Are you guys okay?"

He took a good look at the three agents and found Prentiss shuddering and shaking, as if she had just come back inside from a blizzard. Her face had only minor cuts on it but otherwise she seemed fine – shaken and bewildered but fine. Next to her sat Morgan looking equally horrified. On the outside, he harbored no marks on him and for that, Hotch was glad. JJ also seemed both physically and mentally in tact because she was the only one who answered him out loud. "We're okay, Hotch. How are you and Reid?"

It was then that Hotch turned back to Reid. He had been confident that he didn't startle the young man with his crazed shot and that Reid had managed to get out of the way just in time as the glass came flying at them like little grenades in a battlefield – he was right too because when he peered closely at him, Reid seemed perfectly in tact.

Still, he found himself asking on behalf of the rest of the team. "You okay, Reid?"

Reid nodded, taking back his gun he had abandoned on the floor. "I will be _when_ we get out of here."

It was in that moment, when Reid had said 'when' – not _if_ but _when_ and he had said it in such a matter-of-fact tone that Hotch wondered if he just dreamed the whole thing up but he didn't – that he saw the genius in a whole new light, in a whole new respect. He had been so sure that it was Reid who wouldn't pull through in all of…_this_…ordeal…that he would be the first to fall or mess up because he was just a fucking _kid_ but he surprised Hotch, he surprised all of them by keeping calm in this mess, keeping calm and acting as leader when needed – giving out orders or suggestions when Hotch seemed frozen stiff with silent horror and fear – and keeping _faith _because only God knew that if it was Hotch by himself he would have given up a long time ago and for that Hotch respected him. He respected him a lot – a whole lot. It was those few words that kept Hotch fueled with determination. It was that certain word that made him realize how much they really did need to get out of this horror-infested place that they used to call the BAU, _home_ and look for the others and face the real world and just try to _survive _until they ran out of ammo or steam or whatever it was that kept them going in the first place.

_We can't go out like this – undone not by an unsub but…brainless…zombies._

He tried not to shudder at the thought, grabbed his gun and pushed himself up to a sitting position. Reid was already on his feet, staring down at him in fascination – as if he was visiting some science fair and Hotch was some new, impressive invention – and Hotch suddenly wanted to smack him across the face and shake him and ask him why he was goddamn looking at him like that.

But he didn't. Instead, he got up and brushed off his pants and turned to help the others up as well, ignoring the teasing smile that formed on Prentiss' face when she had watched him dust his pants off, ignoring the frown JJ sent him and the raised eyebrow Morgan gave him – the silent look seeming to ask him, 'Trying to look good before we die?' He could feel Reid's eyes bore into his back, trying to burn into him like an exceptionally hot poker and he tried to ignore that uncomfortable feeling – the feeling that seemed to ask him, 'Now what do we do? Should we go looking for them and possibly die in the process or leave them here to rot and save our own skins? You're the leader so it's your choice. We'll follow you no matter what but if you choose the wrong one, my respect for you will drop.' He tried to ignore him and failed.

But thankfully the choices weren't that hard to choose from – at least not for Hotch.

He wasn't really a narcissist – he didn't care what people thought of him – and he wasn't exactly a hero. He wasn't the typical knight in shining armor that would face _real_ monsters like dragons and witches in order to save lives (fighting unsubs was a completely different story because at least Hotch _stood _a chance, at least he could try and reason with them. But with these zombies? The words '**not a chance**' floated in his head in bold letters like he was on _Microsoft Word_.). Hotch was positive, absolutely positive, had it not been his agents – his family – that was trapped somewhere else in the building with these zombies moving around relentlessly, he was sure he would have taken flight over fight. It was the most logical thing to do. It was instinct, the first rule of survival.

You don't go jumping into a burning building to save a stranger or a stranger's baby in nothing but the clothes on your back.

He didn't go trying to fight his way through a building infested with zombies – supernatural creatures that seemed invincible in every way – with only a handgun and four other agents that didn't have any training in this particular field (how the hell could they or me for that matter, a part of him hissed bitterly into his head) to save people he didn't even know at the high risk of losing his own. It may sound selfish, maybe even arrogant in the way 'I'm-God-and-I-have-the-power-to-choose-who-dies-and-who-lives' but it made goddamn sense.

Hotch stared at the glass-shattered door, his stoic mask coming to cover his face once more. He gestured for each of them to follow him, slowly and carefully guided them around the glass that lay in the middle of the floor, glinting in the artificial light like diamonds.

"Be careful," he hissed when the sound of breaking glass caught up to his ear.

There was a murmur of an apology that came from Morgan in the back. Hotch waved it away with a vague gesture of his left hand, creeping slowly up to the open door. He could see the bleeding hand of the man he had shot earlier through the glass. Cringing in his head, Hotch took in the steady flow of blood dripping from the forearm down in between his index and middle finger. There was a small gap from that finger and the pinky and Hotch knew at once that something had happened to him before he started to camp out at their door – maybe the man broke into a fight on his way here with someone or something else – that caused him to lose his ring finger. Whatever it was, it was certain (as Hotch unconsciously leaned forward for a closer look) that it was gone.

Then suddenly there was a flail of movement – the arm seemed to thrash around violently and Reid took hold of Hotch's shoulder and pulled him back none-too-gently just as the man howled – like a wolf or dog – and took hold of the door and flung it over the team's heads. Had Reid not been quick to push Hotch out of the way, the door would have hit him dead center in the chest and he would have been down for the count (maybe even killed, he though wearily).

The door crashed into the back of the room, causing the piles of papers on the desk and the ones hanging on the wall to fly around crazily. There was a loud and heavy **thud **as it hit the floor and the agents couldn't help but wince at the sound.

Hotch stood immobile; his face pale, sweat streaming down his chin. There was a low groan, an aching groan – one of those sounds that people made when they were dead exhausted and wanted nothing more than to lie down in a bed and sleep the day away – and it took all of Hotch to not scream and run off like a coward with his tail between his legs. Beside him with his hand still gripping tightly to Hotch's shoulder in an iron grip, Reid stared bug-eyed at the man with the graying hair. He seemed unable to communicate anything through his mouth as he tried to make sense of the situation and Hotch knew why. He glanced back at the others, trying to gauge their reactions and they all seemed to be fixated by the man just as Reid.

They all knew why.

Then he looked back and watched in silent horror as the _custodian_, the man with the graying hair moaned again and limped over toward them with his teeth gnashing together like a dog with rabies, one arm extended and the other arm still flailing like a fish out of water on the floor beside his feet. His right eye seemed to stare right at Hotch, right _through _Hotch and he made his long, slow trek toward them. The left eye dangled from its eye-socket uselessly, his blue uniform in tatters and Hotch found himself immediately taking in the man's burned flesh, a hole imbedded into his chest where his heart had been, _should _have been.

_Please let Garcia and Rossi be okay. Please let them be okay or so God help me and them…_

Then he lifted his hands up – he had almost forgotten that he was still holding onto the gun – and trained it on the limping man's head. "I'm sorry," he whispered and before anyone in the room knew what happened, he pressed down on the trigger and the ever familiar deafening cry of the gun-shot rang out into the air and somewhere overhead, Hotch was sure he heard the **cawing **of crows as they rejoiced over the sound of death…


	2. The New Beginning, Part I

**A/N: **I've gotten the beginning of part two done so the next update may come in faster. Please note that this story will be fast-paced. It will get straight into the action and there may be some chapters that heavily focuses on a certain character's POV. With that out of the way, read and enjoy.

P.S. Thank you to all reviews and interest in this story.

**Diclaimer: **I do not own Criminal Minds.

**Warnings: **A/U, Zombies, supernatural elements, NO to little romance, team-centered, other cannon character appearances, not edited, inspired by Stephen King, **FAST-PACED**, violent, action, deaths of characters and cursing.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**If the World Ended Today**

**.**

**Summary:**

Zombie fiction: Hotch stood immobile; his face was pale and sweat dripped down his chin. Beside him, Reid stared bug-eyed at the man with the graying hair. The man moaned and started to crawl forward, completely oblivious to his wounds.

**.**

**.**

**Part I**

**The First Beginning**

**.**

**.**

"Dear God…"

The crowd of people gathered around the BAU was astounding. It seemed half the population of Virginia decided to migrate there, staring and pointing with hundreds of fingers at the top of the building. David Rossi, having just arrived to work late that morning, hung in the back, wondering just what in God's name was going on.

He was about to start asking around – because _dear God _there really were so many people there that he was sure one of them knew the answer or at least, could provide _an _answer. Then he heard a scream, a terrifyingly loud scream that came from the roof of the BAU building itself and he only _just _had time to look up to see a figure run across the roof and think, 'Does he think he's a bird or something' before the figure took an impossibly long leap and for a moment, a cold hard moment, he seemed frozen in mid-air. It felt like a sci-fi movie come to life or the _Matrix _where there didn't seem to be any gravity and for just a split-second, Rossi thought the man would laugh and fly away like _Super-man_.

The spectators around him probably thought the same thing because when he let his eyes fall to the crowd for just that moment, they were all wide-eyed, mouths gaping. But then he heard that unmistakable sound, that sickeningly _loud_, piercing _craaack _like a skull had just split in two after making contact with something hard and his eyes snapped over to the body of the crazy, _suicidal _man, all dead bones on the pavement. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up on end and chills of goose bumps trailed all over his arms and legs as he took in the sight.

Shock coursed through the crowd and the murmurings turned to panic as the ugly reality registered to each individual watching. Someone in the middle started to shout something and Rossi could make out a shrill, "Is he dead? Is he really fucking dead?" He started to make his way through the paralyzed crowd, pushing past men and women and even children (dear God, didn't these kids have school?), staring at the body, – the unmoving, _lifeless _body, all the color drained from his face. He was moving closer and closer to it. "Someone check him out! Is he dead?" He could still hear that person shouting in the crowd and nobody, even though some were most likely annoyed with him, bothered to tell him to shut it because every one of them _was _curious, even if it was obvious – so obvious – that the person was dead.

Rossi was only an arm-length's away from _it _when the second wave hit.

It was slightly more controlled, more organized than the first suicide and when Rossi looked up, appalled, he was so sure that he could have talked those people out of it had they given him a fair chance but when the first one jumped and dropped like a brick, splattering blood, bones and hair all over the sidewalk just a few feet short of where he rested on his knees, he knew they were long gone – he saw it in their eyes that danced with craziness and insanity. Some people, like the first and second victims (both man and woman now that he had a closer look) could not be reasoned with – perhaps at one point, but they could not today, not now.

Then in the next moment, before Rossi could even move, the most surreal thing happened. More and more people came from the back of the roof and walked up to the edge, Rossi counted ten of them. They paired off in groups of two's, one man and one woman per pairing, taking each other's hands into their own and peering down at the people gathered. Nothing but determination in their eyes and Rossi was fooled to believe they were still sane, still able to be reasoned with.

He got up, almost mechanically and made his way to the crowd of silent, bewildered onlookers. He was sure that if he got out just the right words, he could save these ten individuals or at least he would try, he was goddamn _try_ because that was what Rossi always did.

But before he could start to say anything, the front doors to the BAU slammed open and Rossi watched a grimacing Hotch lead his team toward the elder profiler. He found himself saying, instead, "Well it's about goddamn time you showed up. You missed quite an impressive show earlier."

Hotch shook his head, ignoring the sarcasm. "We saw everything on TV."

Rossi stared at him. "You…what? Then why the hell did it take you so long to show up?"

"Calm down, Rossi." Rossi snapped his head to Morgan. "We were trying to make a profile. It wouldn't have helped anyone to do it here."

Rossi scowled, "And?"

"We didn't come up with anything," Reid interjected, his voice quiet.

"So you guys just decided coming out here to tell me the bad news was going to help?"

Hotch looked at Rossi coolly and the elder profiler didn't miss that flash of fear in his narrowed brown eyes. He seemed to silently say, 'Give us time. Place your trust in the team. We're all scared here, Dave because this is different from what we normally face. So please act reasonable.'

Rossi did trust them and watching the fear in Hotch's eyes scared the living _shit _out of him because Hotch - Aaron - never got scared. "I trust your judgment, Aaron," he muttered and Hotch nodded approvingly.

His eyes turned dark as he looked up at the roof, the fear in his eyes vanishing. "We still don't know how they got on the building but if they're trying to give a message to the BAU itself…" Hotch's hands clenched tightly by his side. "I just hope we didn't attract a cult here."

"Same," Rossi nodded, grimacing as one of the men pretended to step off the building. "Why do you think they're gathered like that?"

Reid replied quickly, "Maybe they're waiting for someone, maybe their leader."

Prentiss winced. "I thought this wasn't a cult thing." She watched as the pairs in the center quickly stepped to the side, making room as someone started to stride up to the front. "I guess they do have someone," she muttered, half to herself.

When the man came into clear view, Hotch took note that he was bony, pale and perhaps if giving a rough estimate on his height, bordering six feet plus. Black, beady eyes stared down to the crowd, then glancing off to Hotch and his team. He seemed to take in the hundreds of people down below in one short glance.

The man then took a short bow, dark hair sweeping over his eyes as he did so. He looked back up after a moment, a feral grin curving his lips and in a voice heavily accented, said, "The night will come upon us when we will all fall into darkness, when man becomes extinct and _something_ more thriving, more willing to survive takes the world into a new, golden age." Then the man stepped forward, one foot off the building, already swaying with the breeze. Hotch stared at him, fear clenching at his heart, threatening to overtake him. He wanted to reach out and shake the man to his senses. "Death will be waiting for us all soon."

Then with another bow, the man took the plunge, grinning like he was some spectacular actor making his grand exit off stage and his silent comrades followed him, pair-by-pair to death's wings. In later times, Hotch would think back on this moment as the first sign of all Hell breaking loose on earth.


End file.
