Stiles kept his weapons clean, like Argent had taught them and he tried to keep his mind clear like Deaton had taught them. But it was...difficult. Even with the supply runs, there wasn't always time to find medication. Certainly not medication that wasn't exactly life sustaining.

So he was always thinking. He was always thinking, and it was always in his head that maybe they should've followed Derek and Cora wherever they'd gone. South America, maybe? The virus or...whatever had done this to the world, it was probably down there too. But maybe not. Maybe it wasn't, and if it wasn't maybe everyone'd still be alive. Melissa, Allison, Lydia, Argent. His father.

He didn't even know if he'd be alive, come next week or the week after. Scott...he had a feeling he'd at least survive this. If he'd be himself...that Stiles didn't know. Not really.

But he'd never seen a werewolf fall from the bite of a zombie. And that was another thing he couldn't get out of his head.

When Scott sat down, he looked up at the moon with him. "Where do we go now?"