The view from Parker's Ridge had changed everything. The vague notion of escape had solidified into a concrete objective. Their new plan was simple in its goal, but terrifying in its execution: get out of New Havenburg. To do that, they needed a vehicle, fuel, and enough supplies to last them until they could find a sustainable refuge.
"The downtown police precinct," Quinn said, pointing it out on the map spread on the apartment floor. "The armory was overrun, but the precinct held out for almost two days. There will be weapons in the lockup. Body armor. Maybe even an armored vehicle in the garage."
"It'll also be crawling with infected," Hex countered, tracing a route with his finger. "Both cops and the things that got them. But you're right. If we're going to make a run for it, we need better gear than a fire axe and a shotgun."
The plan they formulated was their most ambitious yet. They would leave Lily in the apartment, which was as secure as any place in the city. They would hit the precinct first, then a large distribution warehouse for a grocery store chain on the industrial edge of the city. Speed and efficiency were paramount.
They left before dawn, moving through the sleeping city like shadows. The downtown core was eerily quiet. The hordes they had seen from the ridge were not here; they seemed to move in slow, predictable patterns across the city, and for now, this sector was calm.
The precinct was a fortress, even in death. Heavy steel doors, barred windows. The front entrance was blocked by a makeshift barricade of office furniture, a final, futile attempt by the officers inside to hold the line. The glass in the doors was shattered.
"We go in through the roof," Hex whispered, pointing to a fire escape on the side of the building.
The climb was tense, every metallic groan of the old iron ladder sounding like a gunshot in the silence. The roof was empty. They found a maintenance hatch and, using Quinn's pry bar, forced it open. It led into a dark, silent ventilation room.
The inside of the precinct was a maze of dark hallways and overturned desks. Papers were strewn everywhere. The smell of death was thick in the air. They moved in perfect sync, back-to-back, clearing corners, checking every shadow. Quinn's axe and Hex's shotgun were a deadly combination of silence and overwhelming force.
They found the armory in the basement. The heavy steel door was ajar, bent outward from some immense force. Inside, it was chaos. Gun racks were overturned. Ammo boxes had been ripped open. But there was still treasure to be found.
Quinn found a 9mm pistol, a standard police sidearm, with three full magazines of ammunition. He strapped the holster to his belt. He also found a Kevlar vest, which he immediately put on. It was heavy and smelled of stale sweat, but it was a layer of protection he had not had before. Hex, meanwhile, found a box of shotgun shells, replenishing his dwindling supply.
It was in the evidence lockup that they ran into trouble. They were searching for medical supplies when they heard a noise from the far end of the room—a metal locker door creaking open.
Two men emerged from the shadows. They were thin, grimy, and their eyes were filled with a desperate, feral cunning. They were not infected. They were survivors. And they were armed with sharpened pieces of rebar.
"Drop your gear," the taller of the two men said, his voice a low growl. "The guns. The bags. Everything. Now."
Quinn and Hex froze, slowly raising their hands.
"We don't want any trouble," Quinn said, his voice calm, his eyes darting between the two men, assessing the threat.
"You've already got trouble," the second man snarled, taking a step forward. "This is our place. Our stuff."
In that split second, Quinn saw the man's eyes flicker to the side, a telltale sign he was about to make his move. Quinn did not wait. He dropped, sweeping his leg out, knocking the man off his feet. At the same time, the roar of Hex's shotgun filled the confined space. He had fired into the ceiling, the deafening blast and spray of plaster meant to disorient.
It worked. The taller man flinched, and in that moment of hesitation, Quinn was on his feet, the pistol now in his hand.
"Drop it," Quinn commanded, the gun leveled at the man's chest. "Now."
The two survivors, seeing they were outmatched, threw down their makeshift weapons and fled, disappearing back into the darkness of the precinct.
"Let them go," Quinn said, lowering his weapon. They did not have time for revenge.
They found what they were looking for in the sally port garage. A police riot van. It was a heavy, armored vehicle, its windows reinforced with metal grates. Its tires were solid rubber. It was perfect. The key was still in the ignition.
But there was a problem. The large, rolling garage door was closed, and its electronic motor was dead. The manual crank was on the far side of the garage. And between them and the crank was a horde of at least twenty infected officers, trapped in the garage when the precinct fell. They were clustered at the far end, drawn to some sound from outside, their backs to the van.
"There's too many," Hex whispered. "We'll never make it."
Quinn looked at the infected, then at the van. An idea, born of desperation, sparked in his mind. "We don't have to fight them," he said. He pointed to the riot van's large, roof-mounted siren and spotlight control panel. "You hot-wire that. Get the siren and the lights going. Loud and bright. Point them at the back wall. While they're distracted, I'll get to the crank."
Hex's eyes lit up. "It might just work."
While Quinn stood guard, Hex worked his magic on the van's wiring. After a few tense minutes, he gave Quinn a thumbs-up. Quinn took a deep breath. "Do it."
Hex flipped a switch. The garage was instantly flooded with a blinding, strobing display of red and blue lights. A deafening, whooping siren blast echoed off the concrete walls.
The effect on the infected was immediate and overwhelming. They recoiled from the sensory assault, turning away from the lights and sound, pressing themselves against the back wall, completely disoriented.
It was the opening Quinn needed. He sprinted from the van, the axe in his hand, keeping to the edge of the room. He reached the heavy iron crank and began to turn it with all his might. The heavy door began to groan its way upward, slowly revealing the gray morning light.
He had it about halfway open when the first of the infected began to recover from the initial shock. It turned, its milky eyes fixing on him. Quinn ignored it, continuing to crank. Another one turned.
"Quinn, get in!" Hex yelled, starting the van's powerful engine.
Quinn gave the crank one last, mighty heave, getting the door just high enough. He sprinted for the van, diving through the open passenger door as Hex slammed the vehicle into gear. The van shot forward, its heavy frame scraping under the partially open door, and burst out into the dawn-lit street.
They drove back to the apartment, the heavy van a rumbling, secure fortress in the dead city. They had succeeded. They had weapons, armor, and a vehicle. It was a major victory.
But as Quinn looked at his reflection in the van's side mirror, he saw the toll the constant danger was taking. The dark circles under his eyes. The new, hard lines around his mouth. The cold, empty look in his eyes. They had won the battle, but the war for their own humanity was just beginning.