"Mortality Rate"
Part 1

Audrey Hanson's night was very quickly going from bad to the worst night of her life. Ted Sprague had finally been taken into custody only to be killed in a gruesome car wreck, she had the ever-growing suspicion that Sylar had something to do with the carnage surrounding her, and something had just exploded in the sky.

She cursed her luck under her breath and rubbed her arms frantically in an attempt to warm herself up. The press and public were being held at bay by police barricades surrounding the road, leaving Audrey all alone with the overturned truck and Ted's corpse. The wind had all but stopped, and ever since the recent explosion in the air the night had taken an eerie quietness. Audrey began to wish that she had insisted someone stay with her to wait for the ambulance when she heard a crunching sound come from the truck.

Damnit, what now? She thought, drawing her gun from its holster. Audrey didn't call out, preferring to keep the upper hand on whatever was making that noise. If some reporter had tried to sneak down to get a better look at the wreckage, they were soon going to be in for a world of- WHAM!

A flash of searing pain roared through Audrey as she felt someone's hand grip the back of her neck and thrust her face into the side of the truck. The sudden shock of the attack caused her to drop her firearm and it skittered across the dark pavement, out of her desperate reach. Blood began to flow down Audrey's face, and she attempted to blink it out of her eyes as she turned to face her assailant.

Audrey's vision was blurred from the trauma to her head and she still had hot, wet blood dripping into her eyes, but she was able to discern that her attacker was a man. As soon as she was facing him however, the man gripped Audrey's neck with his other hand as well and forced the detective to the ground.

His knees jabbed into her ribcage, knocking the wing out of Audrey as she struggled to fight back. She knew it was a losing battle, breathless from the attack deeply groggy from the ever-increasing loss of blood. Sharp fingernails dug into the fresh wound on Audrey's head, and she could feel her skin being scraped away.

Audrey's eyes rolled back and curiously peered into the wrecked truck behind her. As the last burning breathes escaped her body and her assailant eagerly clawed at her scalp, Audrey marveled at the last thought to go through her mind.

Where's the body?

Mohinder Suresh's night was troubling, to say the least. After so much violence and bloodshed he didn't if he'd be able to handle any more catastrophe. Molly and himself had both nearly been killed. The telepath and the phasing man had been rushed away to the hospital, and neither looked promising. Lord knows what had become of the Petrelli brothers. And Sylar…

Was missing.

His breathing turning into quick panting breaths, Mohinder whipped his head around frantically looking for Sylar's body, but it was nowhere to be found. The sound of his pounding heart ringing in his ears, Mohinder began to realize what this meant.

Sylar was still alive.

This can't be right. Mohinder's thoughts were racing through his brain. Hiro stabbed him. I saw him… He couldn't have survived that, could he? Mohinder remembered that Sylar had certainly survived seemingly worse injuries, and he shuddered and scolded himself for the faint glimmer of relief that he felt. Sylar is not Zane. Zane was kind, and sweet, and… Sylar murdered my father and nearly killed me as well. No matter what I thought about Zane, the man that was here tonight was a monster that needed to be put down. But if he wasn't…

Molly!

A triumphant grin spread across Mohinder's face as he realized how to deal with this troublesome issue. Molly would be able to find Sylar, wherever he was. And if Hiro had not been able to put down Sylar for good, Mohinder was prepared to do it himself. No matter how much it would pain him to do so.

"Molly! Molly!" Mohinder called out for the little girl, desperate to finally get some feeling of closure from the twisted bond he shared with Sylar. "Molly!"

"She's gone," Mohinder turned to face the voice that had answered him, a voice belonging to Bennet. He and his daughter Claire, still staring up at the sky in a state of shock, were the only people left with Mohinder in Kirby Plaza. "She rode with Officer Parkman to the hospital."

"He was her hero," Mohinder mumbled, cursing himself for not noticing Sylar's disappearance earlier.

"What did you need her for?"

A grim expression flashed across Mohinder's delicate features, "Sylar's gone."

Bennet gave no outward sign that he had heard the Indian doctor's words. He merely glanced over Mohinder's shoulders at were Sylar had been impaled and nodded gravely. It was almost as he hadn't expected the man to remain dead at all. "I don't think Molly will be necessary."

A sudden chilled shuddered through Mohinder as he slowly turned to face the pavement where mere moments ago Sylar's corpse had lain. It was then that Mohinder realized he had overlooked a very vital clue to Sylar's whereabouts. Starting where the serial killer's body had been, a messy trail of crimson blood shone in the moonlight and led a path to a nearby manhole cover. Mohinder had a very good idea where Sylar had gone.

Kneeling next to the manhole cover, not caring that his trousers were getting stained with Sylar's blood, Mohinder made a decision. He nodded gravely, and without even turning to face Bennet, lightly whispered out a single command.

"Give me your gun."

Claire Bennet's night was becoming more than she handle. What seemed like just a few hours ago, she had commented that the universe couldn't be lame enough to make her shoot Peter. But this… Peter and Nathan were gone. They'd flown right up into the air and…

She had felt the heat from the explosion on her face. A tingling warmth had crawled over her as the only man that had ever made her feel normal was blown into a million burning pieces.

But maybe… Her heartbroken mind began to fiendishly grasp at any hope she could muster. Ted wasn't hurt when he blew up the house. Maybe Peter will be okay. But the fall. He's so high up.

She didn't know what else to do but stand stricken and hope. People flurried around her; her near-death companions were rushed away to hospitals and her father was calling out her name, but Claire couldn't move. It was as if her brain had forgotten how to work her muscles. She couldn't tear her eyes away from darkening night sky.

Hopelessness washed over, drowning out any possibility that she might make it through the night's events unscathed. He was really gone. He was gone, far, far away from her, and he was not coming. And she never even said goodbye.

Claire's lip trembled as she felt hot tears pouring over her face yet again, and she weakly called out the only thing she was able to say,

"Peter."

Sunday Montgomery's night was just beginning. It had begun with him getting shot in the back of the head. His boss, a local gangster, had come to the conclusion that he would no longer be needing any services that Sunday supplied, so he ended their business agreement the best way he knew how.

His night had continued with his lifeless body being dumped into the nearest sewer grate, where he had been floating facedown in toxic sludge for untold hours. After what seemed to be an eternity, a ringing began to echo through Sunday's ears, impossibly loud and hurling his head into unspeakable agony.

His eyes fluttered open, blindly staring at the cold pavement above his head. Sunday was awake. Confused. And hungry.

Up. Up. The words filled his head, but his body didn't respond right away. Slowly he reached out, pushing himself out of the waste he had been floating in, and completely oblivious to the blood and ooze that were pouring out of the back of his head. Up. Numb and bloated fingers grasped the rungs of the ladder on the wall, and he attempted to pull himself upward. He was starving, and there would surely be food on the surface.

The bones of his hands bent and then cracked as he pushed with all his might on the manhole cover above him, but Sunday didn't stop to notice. Food was up there. Food to fill the deep and howling craving in his stomach. Food to make him happy. His efforts were rewarded as the manhole cover finally moved away, allowing him access to the surface.

Figures were standing several yards from the hole Sunday emerged from. Far away and large group. Not good for getting food. But nearby was something on the ground. Something large, alone, and bleeding. That would do nicely.

D.L. Hawkins's night was going to be the last one he spent alive. This dawned on him as he was being rushed to a hospital and his wife was gripping his hand will all her might. The sharp pain emanating from his hand made D.L. pretty sure that Niki had broken most of his fingers, but it didn't really matter to him anymore. He was just grateful she was there.

He could feel the life slowly fading out of him, every breath a struggle. Niki was whispering something into his ear, but he couldn't quite make it out. Micah was holding onto his other hand, his grasp not quite as strong as his mother's, and fighting to hold back his tears. D.L. wanted to reassure his son, tell him it was okay to cry, but he couldn't find the strength to form the words. D.L. weakly gripped his son's hand back, hoping his message got across.

This was not how he had imagined his death would arrive. D.L. had always pictured that he would go out in a moment of glory, guns blazing. Not here, slowly slipping away inside an ambulance that would never reach the emergency room in time. Part of him was grateful that at least he had his family beside him, that they knew he loved them, and that, thanks to what went down with Linderman, they would be taken care of after he was gone.

A tiny smile grew on D.L.'s face as he exhaled for the final time and felt the last lingering threads of life escape his body. He looked upon his wife and son for what he thought would be the last time, completely unaware that he would be seeing his family again very, very soon.

Sylar's night was not going at all how he expected. He was supposed to stop Peter Petrelli from exploding, but if the fireworks show in the sky was any indication, he had failed. He was supposed to be the hero, but he had gotten impaled by the little Japanese man. Mohinder was supposed to help him, save him, join him, but he had just left Sylar alone to die.

And now… Sylar had gone a little groggy since being stabbed, but he was vaguely aware that he was no longer lying on the ground of Kirby Plaza. He could hear someone's footsteps thundering in his ear as they splashed through some liquid. Sylar's body was wet, and as consciousness began to return to him he realized he was being dragged along by his arm. If the smell around him was any indication, he and his mystery captor were in the sewer.

"Sylar."

At the sound of his name, all of Sylar's senses suddenly returned to him. Fully alert, he leaned up to get a look at the familiar man calling out for him.

"Mohinder."

Whoever has been dragging him along suddenly dropped Sylar's arm and faced the geneticist. A low gurgling noise escaped the creature's throat, and with a shocking burst of speed he charged Mohinder.

Sylar leapt to his feet as he heard Mohinder cry out in pain. This grotesque being that had pulled Sylar into the depths of the sewer had his hands wrapped tightly around Mohinder's neck, forcing the scientist down to the ground. Without even having time to form a plan, Sylar reached out his hand and snapped the assailant's neck fully around. To Sylar's surprise, this didn't stop the man. Cold, milky eyes still stared blindly in Sylar's direction, and a deep howling sound was echoing in the dank sewer.

A thunderous roar blared throughout the tunnel as the monstrosity's head exploded; Sylar so taken aback in shock that he barely had time to stop the bullet from Mohinder's gun before it took his face off as well. The creature dropped to the ground, body still twitching and leaking from every hole, as Sylar moved in the blink of an eye to Mohinder's side.

The Indian man dropped his gun and gripped onto Sylar's shoulder for support. The two men held onto each other, both badly battered and their blood mingling into a pool at their feet. Mohinder had deep gashes in his neck, and his cold, clammy composition gave the appearance that he might collapse at any moment. Sylar struggled to hold injured man up, his own wounds hampering his attempt.

Mohinder's eyes met Sylar's, an odd mix of awe, gratitude, and horror. This was the first time they'd been this close since… Mohinder shook the thought off and returned his gaze to the macabre scene at his feet. The man, if indeed he could be called that, looked as if he should have died well before their encounter. Doesn't matter, Mohinder calmed himself, He's dead now.

Sylar could not break his gaze away from Mohinder, grateful that the other man had not yet broken away from him. As he stared at the shell-shocked man in front of him, he heard himself voicing the question he knew they were both thinking, "What is that thing?"

Unable to look away from the broken corpse in front of him, Mohinder found himself whispering in a small, timid voice he hadn't used since he was a child, "I don't know."

Sylar nodded grimly and held tighter onto Mohinder, afraid that either of them could fall apart at any moment. Confusion swept over Sylar as he felt an unfamiliar feeling creep inside him. Realization dawned on him as he recognized that for the first time several months, the cold hand of fear had grabbed hold of him.

Matt Parkman's night was over. He had quickly whisked away to a hospital and given enough anesthesia to knock him out for hours. While the doctors worked on removing the bullets from his abdomen, and he remained in a peaceful state of unconsciousness, Matt was lucky enough to miss out on most of the horror sweeping New York City that night. He was fortunate enough to sleep through a good deal of the destruction and bloodshed terrorizing even the very hospital he lay in.

Unfortunately, while Matt's luck had allowed him to miss out on the first night of rampant carnage sweeping through the city, he had several more fear-filled nights ahead of him.

The first rays of dawn beginning to creep through his window, Matt's eyes slowly opened as he regained consciousness. Thanks to the morphine he wasn't in terrible pain, and he vaguely thought that he could smell something burning in the distance. His calm quickly left him as he realized he wasn't alone in his hospital room.

"I need… your help." A deep voice panted at him. Matt's eyes widened in shock as the surveyed the figure in front of him. It appeared to be a human being, but its skin was bruised and its clothes were bloodstained. Blood was dripping from the person's forehead and their scalp was bulging to one side, as if it had just been haphazardly placed on the person's head by their ghoulish creator. Matt's breathing began to become more frantic as a sense of recognition and foreboding slowly filled him.

"Ted?"