The first thing that hit him wasn't the pain, though there was plenty of that waiting its turn. It was the smell. Thick and greasy, like a barbecue gone terribly wrong. Burnt meat, gasoline, hot rubber, and something else underneath. Something sickly sweet and heavy, like flowers left too long in a vase, starting to rot.
Quinn's eyes snapped open. The sky was the color of dishwater, low and threatening rain. He was lying on his back, the rough grain of asphalt biting into his cheek. Cold seeped through the rips in his fatigues. He tried to sit up, and that's when the pain arrived, punctual as a train schedule. A hot spike drove itself through his skull, right behind his eyes. He groaned, a low, gravelly sound that scraped his raw throat.
He tasted blood, gritty with road dirt. His head throbbed in time with a slow, thick pulse. Okay, Marine. Assess. The training kicked in, a faint voice under the roaring pain. Situation first, pain later.
He pushed himself up onto his elbows, the world tilting like a carnival ride threatening to fly off its axle. Metal groaned nearby, the sound of stressed steel settling. Around him… wreckage. Twisted metal sculptures that used to be Humvees and transport trucks. Blackened scorch marks painted the highway lanes like giant, angry fingerprints. Glass crunched under his hand as he shifted. Bodies lay scattered like discarded dolls, some in uniform, some not. Still. Too still.
The air felt heavy, charged with a silence that wasn't natural. No birds sang. No distant traffic hummed. Only the lonely whistle of the wind moving through shattered windshields and the crackle of a fire somewhere nearby, eating something unseen.
Where...?
He was on a highway. Four lanes, maybe five. Overpasses stood broken in the distance like rotten teeth. Trees lined the embankment on one side, their leaves rustling nervously. On the other side, beyond the shoulder littered with debris, the ground sloped away.
How...?
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push past the headache, searching for the missing piece. There was the deployment… the hurried goodbyes… Anna.
A flicker of memory, bright and painful against the grey confusion. Her face, framed by the morning light spilling through the doorway. Her hand warm on his cheek. "Come back safe, Quinn," she'd whispered, her voice thick. He could almost smell her perfume, something light and floral, the exact opposite of the stink filling his nostrils now. He remembered kissing her, the familiar taste of her lips, the promise he'd made with his eyes because the words wouldn't come. I will. Then… orders barked, the rumble of the transport, the clatter of gear. Then… nothing. A blank space, like a torn page in a book. Now this.
He patted himself down. Gear mostly gone. His rifle – nowhere in sight. Panic tightened its cold fist around his gut. No weapon? His hand brushed against the reassuring weight on his belt. His K-Bar knife. Standard issue, solid steel, sharpened to a razor edge. He drew it slowly, the worn leather handle familiar and comforting in his palm. It wasn't much, but it was something.
He needed to get his bearings. Get off the exposed highway. Find shelter. Find answers. Find… Anna. The thought sent a fresh wave of nausea through him. Don't think about that now. Survive first.
He scanned the wreckage again, more carefully this time. The convoy looked like it had been hit hard. Ambush? No, the destruction felt… messier. More random. Some vehicles were overturned, others riddled with impacts that didn't look like bullets. And the bodies… they weren't just shot. They looked torn.
A sound drifted on the wind, thin and reedy. A whimper? It snagged at something inside him, the instinct to help. He froze, listening hard. The sound came again, closer this time. It sounded like a child crying softly.
No. The voice of training cut through the rising hope. That's not right. It sounded… off. Like a recording played on a cheap speaker. Too repetitive. Too… hollow.
He dropped into a crouch behind the blackened husk of a Humvee, peering around the edge. Movement. Down the highway, maybe fifty yards away, emerging from the drifting smoke of a burning tire pile. Two figures.
They moved with a jerky, unnatural gait, heads twitching, but there was a horrible speed to them when they chose. They wore torn clothes – civilian rags, stained dark. Their skin was the color of dirty putty, stretched tight over sharp bones. Their eyes… Quinn could see them even from this distance. Wide, staring, milky white but focused. Utterly, terrifyingly focused.
One of them made the sound again. A low, sobbing whimper. "Mommy…?" The voice was small, pathetic. It scraped along Quinn's nerves like fingernails on a blackboard.
Whisperers. The name felt right as he watched them, hearing that chillingly fake cry. It was a lure. These things were smart, coordinated. They didn't just attack; they hunted. They mimicked to draw prey out, then moved in fast for the kill. He finally understood the horrifying efficiency of it.
They hadn't seen him. They were sniffing the air, heads turning side to side, jerky like broken puppets. One pointed a long, grey finger towards a cluster of bodies near the median strip. It let out a low chuckle that turned into a wet gurgle. They started moving towards the corpses, their steps quickening, almost eager.
Quinn knew he should stay hidden. Let them pass. But they were between him and the direction he thought his town lay. And something else, a cold certainty, told him these things wouldn't just pass. They hunted.
He checked his dagger again, flexing his fingers around the grip. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. Quiet now. Fast.
He began to circle, using the wrecked vehicles for cover, trying to get past them, down the highway. He moved low and slow, placing each foot carefully, avoiding the crunch of glass, the scrape of metal. The wind was his friend, masking the faint sounds he made.
He was almost past the tire fire when one of them stopped. Its head snapped up, swiveling directly towards his position behind a burned-out sedan. The milky eyes seemed to bore right through the metal. It let out a low hiss, like air escaping a punctured tire.
The other one stopped too, its head cocked. The whimpering sound cut off instantly. They exchanged a look – a quick, unsettling glance that spoke of shared, alien thought. Coordinated.
They started towards him. Not shuffling now. Moving fast, low to the ground, like hunting animals. Their limbs bent at strange angles, but covered the distance with horrifying speed.
No time to run. No place to hide. Quinn gripped his K-Bar, knuckles white. He braced himself behind the sedan's fender.
The first one reached the car, vaulting over the hood with a fluid, spider-like movement that made Quinn's stomach clench. It landed silently on the other side, blocking his path. It opened its mouth – teeth yellowed, gums black – and lunged, not with a roar, but a sharp, clicking hiss.
Quinn reacted on instinct. He sidestepped, bringing the dagger up in a hard, desperate arc. The blade scraped against bone as it sliced through the creature's forearm. It didn't seem to notice the pain. It just spun, its other hand grabbing for his throat, long, dirty fingernails digging for purchase.
He shoved hard, pushing it back, but it was strong. Unnaturally strong. Its milky eyes locked onto his, filled with nothing but predatory hunger. He smelled its breath – rank, like old meat left in the sun.
The second one was coming around the back of the car. Flanking. These things were smart.
Quinn kicked out, catching the first creature in the chest. It stumbled back a step, giving him a precious second. He couldn't fight two at once, not like this. He had to finish one, fast.
He lunged forward, driving the K-Bar towards the creature's head. It jerked sideways with uncanny speed, the blade slicing only air. Its hand shot out, grabbing his knife wrist with crushing force. Pain flared up his arm. He tried to pull back, but the grip was like iron.
The second creature burst around the rear bumper, low and fast. It launched itself at Quinn's legs, trying to take him down. He twisted, avoiding the snapping jaws, but lost his balance, stumbling backwards.
He fell hard onto the asphalt, the impact jarring his teeth. The first creature was still holding his knife arm, pulling him closer, its reeking mouth opening wide. The second one scrambled towards him, clawing at his boots, trying to get a hold.
Panic clawed at him, cold and sharp. This was it. Pinned. Helpless.
No. Anna's face flashed in his mind. Get home.
He roared, a wordless sound of fury and desperation. With his free hand, he grabbed a chunk of broken asphalt from the ground beside him. He smashed it into the face of the creature holding his wrist. A sickening crunch echoed in the quiet air. The creature shrieked – a high, thin sound unlike the earlier mimicry – and its grip loosened fractionally.
It was enough. Quinn wrenched his knife hand free. He didn't aim. He stabbed, again and again, into the creature's neck and chest, the blade sinking into yielding, strangely cold flesh. It spasmed, dark, thick fluid bubbling from the wounds.
The second creature was trying to crawl up his legs. He kicked wildly, connecting with its jaw. It snapped its head back, then lunged again, faster this time. He rolled sideways, scrambling away, putting the dying first creature between him and the second attacker.
The second zombie paused, its milky eyes fixed on its twitching companion. It tilted its head, making a soft, questioning click deep in its throat. Did it feel loss? Or was it just recalculating?
Quinn didn't wait to find out. He surged to his feet, dagger held ready. The remaining creature turned its attention back to him. It circled slowly, deliberately, its movements smoother now, more predatory. It wasn't just a mindless eating machine; it was sizing him up.
It feinted left, then darted right with blinding speed. Quinn barely managed to parry the clawing hand aimed at his face. He felt a searing pain as fingernails scraped across his cheekbone. He thrust the K-Bar forward. The creature twisted away, impossibly agile.
They circled each other amidst the wreckage, a deadly dance on ruined asphalt. Quinn's breath sawed in his chest. His arm ached where the first creature had grabbed him. Blood trickled warmly down his cheek. This thing was relentless. Tireless.
It lunged again. Quinn dropped low, sweeping its legs out from under it. It crashed to the ground but immediately started to scrabble back up. Quinn pounced, pinning it beneath his weight, driving the K-Bar down towards its temple.
The creature bucked violently, its strength terrifying. It snapped its jaws inches from his face. He pushed down with all his weight, muscles screaming, guiding the knife point. The tip skidded on bone. He adjusted his grip, found the softer spot just behind the eye socket, and drove the blade home with a final, desperate shove.
There was a faint pop, a final shudder, and then it went still. Utterly still.
Quinn stayed there for a long moment, pinning the body, his chest heaving. The silence rushed back in, louder than before. He was covered in sweat, grime, and dark, sticky fluid that definitely wasn't his own blood. His hands were shaking.
Slowly, carefully, he got up. He nudged both bodies with his boot. No reaction. He cleaned his dagger on the rags of the second creature's shirt, the motion automatic, ingrained by years of training.
He leaned against the ruined sedan, catching his breath, surveying the highway again. Nothing moved except the smoke and the wind. But he knew they were out there. More of them. Fast, smart, and hungry.
He needed to get off this road. Find supplies. Find answers.
He started checking the nearby military vehicles more thoroughly. Most were looted or destroyed. Inside one overturned Humvee, wedged between the seats, he found a standard-issue medkit, partially depleted but still useful, and two bottles of water. Gold.
As he backed out of the wreck, his foot nudged something soft. He looked down. Lying near the ditch, partially covered by debris, was a backpack. Small. Bright pink, with faded unicorns dancing across the fabric. It looked horribly out of place in this landscape of death and decay.
He knelt, pulling it free. It was light, but not empty. A kid's school bag. He turned it over in his hands. The sheer wrongness of it being here made his stomach churn again. Attached to the zipper was a plastic name tag, the kind parents carefully label for the first day of school. The name was written in neat, careful print.
Helen McLean.
Quinn stared at the name. It meant nothing to him. Just a name. But it was a name attached to a small, pink backpack lying on a highway to hell. A child was here. A child named Helen McLean.
Where was she now?
The question hung heavy in the foul-smelling air.