They made it across the street in a stumbling, desperate run. The quiet brick house felt like a fortress on a battlefield. Quinn shoved Sarah and Lily against the side wall, hidden from the street by a thick, overgrown azalea bush that smelled faintly of rain.
"Stay here. Don't move," he commanded, his voice a harsh whisper.
He crept along the side of the house, poker held at the ready. The windows on the first floor were all locked, dark and imposing. They looked like the unblinking eyes of a sleeping giant. Then he saw it. A small, ground-level window, half-hidden by weeds that had grown up around it. It was a basement window, a metal-framed casement type with a single pane of glass. It was their way in.
He returned to Sarah. "We're going in through there," he said, pointing. "It's our only chance."
She looked at the small window, then back at him, her eyes clouded with fever. She gave a slow, weak nod, a gesture that took a visible effort.
Quinn worked quickly. He took off his jacket, wrapping it around the hooked end of the iron poker to muffle the sound. With three hard, sharp jabs, he shattered the small pane of glass. The noise was still loud in the relative quiet of the afternoon, but it was a muffled crunch, not a sharp crack that would carry for blocks. He carefully cleared the remaining shards of glass from the frame with the poker, cutting his hand in the process but barely registering the pain.
The opening was small. He slid through first, his shoulders scraping against the metal frame, and dropped into the pitch-black space below. He landed in a crouch on a cold concrete floor, listening. Silence. The air was stale, thick with the smell of dust and damp earth. He waited a full thirty seconds, letting his eyes adjust to the near-total darkness, his ears straining for any sound of movement inside the house. Nothing. They were alone.
"Okay," he whispered up through the opening. "I'm going to pull you through. Sarah, you first."
Getting her inside was a slow, agonizing process. She had no strength left. Quinn had to reach up, grab her by the shoulders, and carefully guide her limp body through the narrow frame. She cried out in pain as her wounded arm brushed against the side of the window. Lily followed, small and trembling, her eyes wide with fear in the darkness. Quinn lifted her through the opening and set her gently on the floor.
They were in. They were safe. For now.
Quinn helped Sarah to a dusty old sofa that was pushed against one wall. She collapsed onto it, her body wracked with shivers that shook the old furniture. "Mark," she muttered, her eyes unfocused, staring at the ceiling. "Did you remember to… to take out the recycling? It's Tuesday."
"It's okay, Sarah," Quinn said softly, his heart twisting into a painful knot. "Just rest."
He looked around their sanctuary. It was a typical unfinished basement. A large furnace stood silent in one corner, its ductwork like metallic octopus arms reaching into the darkness above. Cardboard boxes were stacked high against one wall, their contents labeled with faded marker: "X-MAS DECOS," "COLLEGE TEXTBOOKS," "ACTION FIGURES."
The last box sent a jolt of pain through Quinn. Tom had loved his action figures, lining them up for epic battles on the living room floor. He could almost see him there, narrating the fight in a low voice, his face a mask of concentration. The memory was so clear, so recent, it felt like a physical blow. He had failed him. The thought was a cold, hard stone in his gut.
He had to do something for Sarah's wound. He ripped a long strip of fabric from the bottom of his own t-shirt. He found a forgotten bottle of water in his backpack—it was half-empty, but it was clean. He gently peeled back her bloody sleeve again. The wound was worse. The skin around the bite was a deep, angry purple, and the dark veins tracking up her arm were more pronounced, like dark lightning under the skin.
He poured a small amount of water onto the torn fabric and tried to clean the bite. Sarah flinched away from the touch, crying out softly.
"It's cold," she mumbled, her head lolling to the side. "Tom, put on a sweater… you'll catch your death of cold…"
Her mind was gone, lost in a fever dream of a life that no longer existed. Quinn wrapped the makeshift bandage around her arm, tying it as securely as he could. It was a useless gesture, and he knew it. A band-aid on a mortal wound.
Lily had not made a sound. She stood beside the couch, staring at her mother with an expression of numb comprehension that no child should ever have. She clutched a small, dirty unicorn figurine in her hand, the same one from her bedside table. She reached out and timidly took Quinn's free hand, her small fingers cold and tight in his. Her silence was more terrifying than any scream.
A sudden sound from outside made them all freeze.
Scrape. Shuffle. Scrape.
The sound was coming from right outside their broken window. The slow, dragging footsteps of the infected. Quinn instinctively put his body between the window and his family, pulling Lily close. He held his breath, every muscle tense. A low moan drifted through the opening, a sound of mindless hunger. It was so close he could almost feel the vibration through the concrete floor. The shuffling continued for what felt like an eternity, then slowly faded as the creature moved on down the street.
The moment the sound was gone, Quinn moved. He could not rely on luck. He began to barricade their position. He found a heavy, discarded wooden workbench and, with a grunt of effort, shoved it in front of the broken window. It did not seal the opening completely, but it was a solid obstacle. He dragged heavy boxes filled with books and old china and stacked them against the workbench, creating a thick, solid wall of forgotten memories. Then he turned his attention to the wooden door that presumably led to the rest of the house. It had a simple bolt lock, but he did not trust it. He found an old, heavy dresser filled with paint cans and pushed it against the door, wedging it shut.
When he was done, he slumped against the wall, the iron poker clattering to the floor beside him. A wave of exhaustion so profound it was like a physical blow washed over him. His arms and legs felt like lead. His head throbbed. The adrenaline that had been coursing through him for hours was gone, leaving behind a hollow, aching void. He was running on fumes, the promise he had made to Mark the only thing keeping him upright.
He pushed himself to his feet and walked back over to Sarah. He knelt beside the couch and checked on her.
Her shivering had stopped. Her skin, which had been burning with fever just minutes ago, now felt cool and clammy to the touch. Her breathing was a shallow, barely perceptible whisper of air. Her eyes were half-open, but they saw nothing. The light was gone from them.
Quinn looked at his sister, the vibrant, laughing woman who had hugged him at the door what felt like a lifetime ago. He saw her pale, still face in the dim light filtering from the cracks in his barricade. He knew.
She was not just fading anymore. And he was completely, utterly powerless to stop it.