The SUV's engine was a steady rumble in the pre-dawn quiet, a comforting sound against the memory of clicking jaws and scrabbling claws that still echoed in Quinn's ears. He risked a glance in the rearview mirror. Nothing but empty road stretching back towards the dark smudge on the horizon that had been the edge of the city. They'd pushed hard, weaving through silent suburban streets, then hitting darker country roads, putting miles between themselves and Helen's house. The immediate pursuit seemed to have faded. For now.
He glanced sideways at Sarah. She was slumped in the passenger seat, head resting against the window, eyes closed. Her face was pale, beaded with sweat despite the cool air blowing through the vents. Her breathing was shallow. She held her hand pressed tightly against the makeshift bandage on her thigh, the denim around it stained dark and growing darker. Helen's shot had been brutally effective.
In the back seat, Helen was quiet, huddled on the floor behind Quinn's seat, the AK-47 lying beside her. Whether she was asleep or just stunned into silence, Quinn couldn't tell. He didn't push it. The girl had shot Sarah, saved them with a warning, then screamed in terror – all in the space of ten minutes. Whatever shock she was in, she'd earned it.
"How you doing?" Quinn asked Sarah quietly, keeping his eyes mostly on the road ahead. The paved road had given way to cracked asphalt, then gravel. Trees grew sparser, replaced by wide, dark fields stretching away on either side under a sky slowly lightening from black to deep indigo.
Sarah didn't open her eyes. "Been better," she managed, her voice thin. "Hurts like hell. Feels… hot."
Infection. Quinn didn't need to be a doctor to know the signs. The dirty garage, the bullet tearing through fabric and flesh – it was almost guaranteed. Without proper cleaning, antibiotics… He pushed the thought away. They needed help. Real help. Not just the bandages from his medkit.
He scanned the landscape. Empty fields, occasional skeletal remains of barns or silos silhouetted against the growing light, miles of barbed wire fence lining the road. It was profoundly empty. After the constant tension of the city, the sheer lack of anything moving out here felt strange, almost unnatural. No flickering shapes darting between buildings, no distant moans carrying on the wind.
"It's quiet out here," he murmured, mostly to himself.
Sarah opened her eyes slightly, looking out at the passing fields. "Yeah," she rasped. "Not many people lived out this far. Guess when the SIF hit… fewer bodies to get back up."
It made a grim kind of sense. The plague, as Sarah had described it, spread where people gathered. Cities, dense suburbs. Out here, houses were miles apart. Fewer hosts meant fewer monsters. It didn't mean the danger was gone – things could wander, drawn by sound or chance – but the overwhelming numbers they faced in the city seemed absent. A small comfort, but a vital one.
"Need to find somewhere safe," Quinn said. "Somewhere clean. Tend to that leg."
Sarah nodded weakly, closing her eyes again. "Water..."
Quinn reached into the backpack at his feet, found one of the water bottles, and passed it to her. She fumbled with the cap, her fingers clumsy. He took it back, twisted it open, and handed it to her. She drank slowly, carefully.
The sun was starting to breach the horizon now, painting the eastern sky in bruised shades of orange and purple. The light revealed more detail – overgrown fields choked with weeds, farm equipment rusting where it stood, houses with roofs caved in or windows gaping like empty eye sockets. Abandonment everywhere. Despair etched into the landscape.
They drove for another hour, the fuel gauge dipping steadily towards the quarter-tank mark. Sarah drifted in and out of consciousness, occasionally moaning softly. Helen remained silent in the back. Quinn's own exhaustion was a heavy weight, pulling at his eyelids, but the urgency of Sarah's condition kept him alert. Where could they go? Every derelict house looked like a potential trap, every overgrown barn a possible nest.
Then he saw it.
Far off the road, maybe half a mile down a barely visible dirt track leading through a fallow cornfield, stood a house. Unlike the others they'd passed, this one looked… intact. Two stories, traditional farmhouse design, whitewashed walls looking reasonably clean even from this distance. More importantly, the windows weren't broken holes. They were dark squares, tightly boarded up from the inside with what looked like heavy planks. A thin curl of smoke, pale grey against the morning sky, rose from a stone chimney.
Someone was home.
His heart gave a complicated leap – hope mixed with sharp caution. Occupied meant resources, maybe help. It also meant potential conflict, suspicion, danger of a different kind. People out here, surviving this long, wouldn't be careless. They wouldn't be welcoming without reason.
But Sarah groaned again beside him, her skin looking clammy even in the growing light. They didn't have many options.
"Sarah," he said, gently shaking her shoulder. "Look."
She blinked her eyes open, following his gaze towards the distant farmhouse. She squinted, taking in the boarded windows, the smoke, the isolation. "Fortified," she murmured. "Someone's dug in."
"Worth a try?" Quinn asked. "We need help. For your leg."
She looked at him, her eyes clouded with pain but still sharp. "Could be trouble. Like Greg and his crew, only maybe smarter."
"Or," Quinn countered softly, "it could be people just trying to survive. Like us." He looked back at the house. "That smoke… they have fire. Maybe medicine. Maybe clean water." He paused. "We're low on fuel. Can't drive forever. And you need attention now."
Sarah stared at the house for a long moment, then nodded slowly, grimacing as the movement pulled at her wound. "Alright. Okay. But slow. Careful. No surprises."
Quinn turned the SUV carefully off the gravel road and onto the bumpy dirt track. The vehicle bounced and jostled, each bump eliciting a pained hiss from Sarah. He drove slowly, giving anyone inside plenty of time to see them coming. No sense startling people who likely had guns pointed at every window.
As they got closer, the details sharpened. The house was well-maintained, considering. The lawn immediately around it was cut short, creating a clear field of fire. The boarding on the windows was thick, overlapping planks bolted securely. He saw no movement, no faces peering out, but he felt eyes on them. He knew they were being watched.
He stopped the SUV about fifty yards from the house, well clear of the short lawn, engine idling. He killed the headlights. What now? Honk? Yell?
Before he could decide, a voice called out, sharp and clear, startlingly loud in the quiet morning air.
"That's far enough! State your business!"
The voice came from an upstairs window, slightly muffled by the boards but unmistakably male, and steady. An old man's voice, perhaps, but firm. Not panicked.
Quinn shut off the engine. Silence descended, broken only by the ticking of the cooling engine and Sarah's ragged breaths. He rolled down his window slowly.
"We need help!" Quinn called back, pitching his voice to carry but trying not to sound aggressive. "My friend is hurt! Shot! Needs medical attention!"
Silence from the house. Quinn waited, hands visible on the steering wheel. He could feel Sarah watching him, her breath catching slightly. Helen stirred in the back seat, peering cautiously over the front seats towards the house.
"Shot by who?" the voice called back after a tense minute. "You bringin' trouble here?"
"No trouble!" Quinn yelled. "Accident! We're just passing through! Please! She's fading fast!"
Another long silence. Quinn could imagine the debate happening inside. Letting strangers in was a huge risk. Could be a trick. Could be desperate people who'd turn violent. Could be carriers of the sickness itself, though that seemed less likely out here.
Just as Quinn was about to call out again, maybe offer supplies in trade, a different voice spoke, female this time, closer, from behind the heavily reinforced front door.
"How bad is she hurt, mister?"
Quinn looked at Sarah. Her eyes were closed again, her face tight with pain. "Bad!" he called towards the door. "Losing blood! Feverish! Needs cleaning, bandages… anything you can spare!"
The silence stretched again. Quinn gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white. This was it. They either got help here, or Sarah's chances dropped dramatically.
Finally, the sound of heavy bolts being drawn back echoed from the house. One, then another. The thick wooden door creaked open a few inches, revealing a sliver of darkness within.
"Alright," the woman's voice said, tight with apprehension. "Bring her to the porch. Slowly. And keep your hands where we can see 'em. My husband's got a shotgun aimed right at your heart, mister. Don't try anything stupid."
Relief washed over Quinn, so potent it almost made him dizzy. But it was laced with adrenaline. They weren't safe yet.
"Okay," he called back, keeping his voice steady. "We're coming. Just help her." He turned to Sarah. "Can you walk?"
Sarah nodded grimly, already pushing herself upright, biting back a cry of pain. "Help me up."
Quinn got out slowly, hands raised slightly, showing they were empty. He opened Sarah's door and carefully helped her out of the SUV. She leaned heavily on him, her arm slung over his shoulder. Helen cautiously opened her back door and slid out, clutching the AK-47, her small face pale and wide-eyed as she looked towards the imposing house.
"Leave the guns!" the man's voice barked from the upstairs window.
Quinn nodded towards Helen. "Helen, leave the rifle in the car. Now." Helen hesitated, glancing from Quinn to the house, then reluctantly placed the AK-47 back on the floor of the SUV before closing the door softly.
Slowly, deliberately, supporting Sarah's weight, Quinn started walking towards the porch. Each step felt like crossing a minefield. He could feel the unseen shotgun tracking their movement. The woman remained hidden behind the slightly open door. They reached the wooden steps of the porch.
"Stop there," the woman commanded.
They stopped. Sarah was trembling now, whether from pain or blood loss or fear, Quinn couldn't tell.
The door opened wider. A woman stood there, silhouetted against the dim interior light. Older, grey hair pulled back severely, face lined with worry and suspicion, but her eyes looked sharp, assessing. She held a heavy iron skillet like a weapon. Behind her, deeper in the shadows of the house, Quinn could just make out the shape of a man holding a long gun.
The woman's eyes fixed on Sarah's blood-soaked leg, then flickered to her pale face. A flicker of something – pity? professional assessment? – crossed her features.
"Alright," she said again, her voice tight, making the decision. She stepped back, opening the door wider, though she didn't lower the skillet. "Get her inside. Quick now. But Lord help you if you bring troubled own on us."
Her fear was a tangible thing, hanging heavy in the air between them. But she was letting them in.