Evolution, a Spencer Reid/Criminal Minds Fanfic

Chapter 38. Lost

"So...how d'ya wanna do this?"

Rossi had checked out one of the Bureau's SUVs, knowing they might be driving over some rough terrain. He still wasn't sure about the wisdom of crashing the retreat. Carol Bescardi would be unhappy to say the least. More like furious, if the whole point was to escape ordinary, untalented people like us. But he'd rarely seen Morgan so insistent.

"Let's just drive 'til we get there, okay?"

Turning his head to the side, Rossi took a long look at his traveling companion.

"You do realize it's at least a seventeen hour drive, right? And then we have to find the place. And GPS doesn't always work out there."

"Yeah, yeah. I'll spell you. When you want me to drive, just pull over, okay? We'll find them." Morgan couldn't seem to get comfortable in his seat. Having decided to go in search of Reid, Hotch and Ana, he was impatient to get moving.

"Relax, Derek. It's a Saturday. Light traffic. We'll make good time."

Morgan's only response was an unintelligible grumble which Rossi chose to ignore. He wasn't looking forward to being cooped up for hours with this bundle of ill-tempered anxiety beside him. It would be best to find Morgan something useful to do.

"Why don't you call J.J. and let her know what we're doing?"

"I will. But I'm gonna wait until we're on the road and she can't stop us. Or ask to go with us. Or tell anyone else who might want us to wait for them. Like Prentiss. Or Garcia."

Rossi sighed, resigning himself to the long trip. As they entered the light stream of traffic headed north, something occurred to him and he brightened.

"There's a place about an hour from here that makes great pie. Lemon merengue is their specialty."

Morgan shot him a look that destroyed all hope of pie. Reaching into his go-bag, Morgan pulled out a handful of vending machine snacks. As the assorted candy bars and bags of stale chips slid through his fingers, mounding on the dashboard, he delivered his verdict concerning meals.

"No stopping, Rossi. We eat on the road."

The older agent winced at the idea of Doritos with a Hershey bar chaser. Washed down with Pepsi. Probably diet. Probably decaf.

"Well...maybe on the way back?"

Morgan responded by tossing a Snickers bar into Rossi's lap.

xxxxxxx

As Hotch unknowingly made his slow, painful way deeper into the wilderness, he considered his attire.

A suit was a fine and wonderful thing. If your physical activity was minimal. If you were someplace mild and temperate. But when every twig and bramble snagged it, and the sun and exertion combined to turn a lined, wool jacket into a furnace, then a suit became an instrument of torture. As soon as he could do so without a wave of vertigo felling him, he struggled out of his jacket and tied it around his waist. He was more comfortable temperature-wise, but pushing through bracken and falling repeatedly shredded his shirt, leaving his skin prey to sun, insects, cuts, and abrasions.

Several times when he let himself rest, he tested phone reception. Nothing. He finally gave up trying. The day was growing old and he wanted to reach shelter before that deep, solid blackness that characterized the night out here, overtook him.

Hotch finally reached a spot where the incline was less dramatic. He took several deep breaths, readying himself for the waves of light-headed nausea he'd come to expect. It wasn't so bad. He decided he must be recovering. He didn't know exactly what he was recovering from, but when he pulled himself over the edge of the slight cliff and lay panting on the ground, he sent heartfelt thanks to whatever power might be looking out for lost, injured FBI agents. He was sure Rossi, with his Catholic background, could supply him with a saint or two. He'd have to remember to ask him when he was back in Quantico.