The days following the raid on the precinct were a blur of preparation. The riot van was a game-changer. It was not just a vehicle; it was a mobile fortress, a tangible symbol of their plan to escape. Quinn and Hex worked on it relentlessly in the building's secure underground garage. They reinforced weak spots, checked the engine, and loaded it with their growing cache of supplies.
Lily, in the meantime, had developed a cough.
At first, it was just a small, dry tickle in her throat. Quinn told himself it was just the dust, the stress, the poor air quality. But it persisted. It grew deeper, wetter, until her small body was wracked with coughing fits that left her pale and breathless. He checked her for a fever constantly, his heart seizing with terror every time the back of his hand touched her forehead. There was none, but the cough was getting worse. He knew, with a gnawing dread, that she needed medicine they did not have. Simple antibiotics. A child's cough syrup. Things that had once been trivial but were now as precious as gold.
One night, while Quinn was trying to coax Lily to drink some water, Hex called him over to the comms desk, his expression tense.
"I've got something," he said, pointing to his laptop, which was connected to a salvaged shortwave radio. "It's been cycling for the last hour. Faint. Heavily encrypted, but the encryption is sloppy, civilian-grade. I was able to break it."
He hit a key, and a voice filled the quiet apartment. It was a woman's voice, calm and professional, repeating the same message over and over.
"…to any survivors. This is a secure broadcast from the St. Michael's Community Clinic. We are operational. We have a doctor. We have medical supplies. We are accepting sick and wounded. I repeat, St. Michael's is open. We are located at the corner of Westmoreland and 12th Street. We are a place of hope. God be with you."
The message ended, followed by a few seconds of static, and then it began again.
Quinn listened to the loop three times, his mind racing. A clinic. A doctor. Hope. The word felt alien, a language he no longer spoke.
"It's a trap," he said immediately, his skepticism a hard shield. "It has to be. A lure to draw in desperate people."
"Maybe," Hex said, not looking away from the screen. "But look at this." He pointed to the signal analysis. "The broadcast power is low. It's a localized signal, probably running off a car battery or a small generator. If it were a trap set by a large group, they'd likely have the resources for a stronger, wider broadcast. This feels… small. Desperate."
"Desperate people are dangerous, Hex," Quinn countered.
From the other room, Lily let out a series of harsh, barking coughs. The sound cut through Quinn's skepticism like a knife. He looked at Hex, who just gave him a knowing, somber look. Lily needed a doctor. The hope, false or not, was a flame in the darkness, and he was a moth, irresistibly drawn.
"Can you find it?" Quinn asked, his voice strained.
"Westmoreland and 12th," Hex said, pulling up their city map. He traced a line with his finger. "It's on the other side of the river. An old, industrial part of town. We'd have to cross the Grant Memorial Bridge."
Crossing the bridge would be a major risk. It was a natural chokepoint, likely to be either completely blocked or heavily populated with infected. But the clinic… the possibility of medicine for Lily… it outweighed the danger.
Over the next few hours, they debated. Was it real? Was it worth the risk? Every argument Quinn made against going was silenced by the sound of Lily's labored breathing. His promise to protect her meant more than just fighting off monsters. It meant giving her a chance to live, to be healthy. The decision was made not with logic, but with the desperate love of a guardian for his charge.
"We'll go," Quinn said finally. "We'll take the van. We'll investigate. But we prepare for the worst. We assume it's a trap until we have proof otherwise."
They spent the rest of the night preparing. They packed a "go-bag" for Lily with her own water, the last of the crackers, and her drawing of their family. They double-checked their weapons and supplies. Sleep was impossible, the air thick with a mixture of nervous anticipation and dread.
They set out in the pre-dawn darkness, the riot van's engine a low, powerful rumble. The journey took them through unfamiliar territory, a decaying urban landscape of abandoned factories and rust-belt warehouses. This part of the city felt older, grittier. The graffiti on the walls was different, too. Here and there, hastily spray-painted arrows pointed in the same general direction, some with a crude cross painted next to them. Signs. They were following signs.
As they approached the Grant Memorial Bridge, their fears were realized. It was not completely blocked, but it was a chaotic mess of jackknifed trucks and stalled cars. And it was crawling with infected. A slow, shambling river of them flowed across the bridge in both directions.
"We can't drive through that," Hex said, his hands tight on the steering wheel. "They'll swarm us. The van is tough, but it's not invincible."
Quinn looked at the mass of bodies. "We don't go through them," he said, his eyes scanning the structure of the bridge. "We go around them." He pointed to the wide, raised pedestrian walkway that ran along the side of the bridge, separated from the road by a thick concrete barrier. "It's wide enough. Can you get the van up there?"
Hex looked from the curb to the walkway. It would be a tight squeeze, and the initial jump over the curb was risky. But it was possible. "It'll be rough," he said. "But yeah. I think so."
"Do it."
Hex took a deep breath, backed the van up, and then hit the gas. The heavy vehicle lurched forward, its reinforced front bumper hitting the high curb with a loud crunch of metal and concrete. The van tilted violently, one side lifting into the air. For a terrifying second, Quinn thought they were going to tip over. But then the wheels caught, and with a groan of stressed metal, the van settled onto the pedestrian walkway.
They drove slowly across the bridge, the infected on the road just a few feet away, separated by the concrete barrier. Some of them noticed the van, turning and clawing at the barrier, their groans audible even over the engine. Quinn kept his pistol trained on them through the grated window, but they were safe, an island of armor and steel in a river of death.
Once they were across the river, the atmosphere changed again. The streets were quieter here, the signs more frequent. They were getting close. They followed the arrows to the corner of Westmoreland and 12th.
St. Michael's Community Clinic was not what they expected. It was a small, unassuming brick building, its windows boarded up tight. But it was clean. The area around it was clear of bodies and debris. A low barricade of sandbags and chain-link fence surrounded the building. And sitting atop the fence, a man with a rifle watched them approach.
He did not raise his weapon. He just watched.
Hex brought the van to a slow stop about fifty yards from the barricade. He killed the engine. The silence was absolute.
Quinn looked at the clinic, then at Hex. His hand rested on the grip of his pistol. This was the moment of truth. Was this a haven, a place of hope in a world of despair? Or had they just driven themselves into the most sophisticated trap in New Havenburg?