The moment Mr. Henderson's bloody hand gripped the window frame, Quinn acted. He didn't hesitate. He took two steps forward and swung the heavy iron poker like a bat, aiming for the man's head.
The poker connected with a sickening thud.
But Mr. Henderson didn't fall. He barely seemed to register the blow. He just flinched, then continued to pull himself through the shattered window, his wild eyes fixed on Quinn. Glass crunched under his feet as he dropped into the living room.
He let out a low, gurgling growl and lunged.
Quinn sidestepped, bringing the poker back for another swing, but Henderson was too fast. He grabbed the front of Quinn's jacket with impossible strength, pulling him forward. His other hand clawed at Quinn's face. Quinn twisted away, feeling sharp fingernails scrape his cheek, drawing blood.
This was not a man. This was something else. It didn't feel pain.
Quinn shoved the end of the poker hard into Henderson's chest, creating just enough space to get free. He stumbled back, raising the poker high. He brought it down again, with all his strength, aiming for the side of Henderson's skull.
This time, the impact was final. Mr. Henderson's legs buckled, and he collapsed onto the floor in a heap. He didn't move again.
Quinn stood over the body, breathing heavily, the iron poker still gripped in his hands. The silence in the room was absolute.
Mark was pressed against the far wall, his face pale with shock, staring at the body on his living room floor. He looked from the still form of his neighbor to Quinn.
"Quinn," he whispered, his voice cracking.
"Mark. Help me," Quinn said, his voice firm and clear, cutting through the shock. "We have to get him out. Now."
The command snapped Mark into action. He nodded, his eyes still wide with fear, and moved cautiously toward the body. Together, they grabbed Mr. Henderson's arms and legs. He felt strangely heavy. They dragged him back to the broken window. It was a clumsy, awful task. They pushed the body out into the yard and left it there on the grass.
"The window," Quinn said immediately. "We have to block it."
He looked around the room. His eyes landed on a heavy oak bookshelf filled with Sarah's novels. "That. Help me move it."
They shoved the bookshelf across the floor, the legs scraping loudly against the wood. With a final, coordinated push, they slammed it against the wall, completely covering the shattered window. It wasn't perfect, but it was solid.
"Now the rest," Quinn ordered. "Every door, every window on this floor. We barricade them."
Mark didn't question him. He ran to the front door and, with Quinn's help, they pushed the heavy living room couch in front of it. It fit perfectly, blocking any way of opening the door. They moved a large armchair to block the back door leading to the patio.
Upstairs, the children's crying had turned into hysterical screams. Sarah's voice was a frantic murmur, trying to soothe them.
Quinn saw her lead Tom and Lily out of the bedroom. Both children were terrified. "In here," Sarah said, opening the door to a small linen closet in the middle of the hallway, far from any outside walls. "We're going to hide in here. It's a game. We have to be very, very quiet." She ushered them inside and closed the door.
The sounds from outside were getting worse. More screams echoed through the neighborhood. Quinn heard the squeal of tires, followed by a loud, metallic crash from a street over. The world outside their sealed house was falling apart.
"We need more weapons," Quinn said to Mark, who was now leaning against the barricaded front door, trying to catch his breath. "Anything. What do you have?"
"I… I don't know," Mark stammered. "In the garage, maybe? I have an old baseball bat."
"Get it," Quinn said.
While Mark went to the garage through the connecting kitchen door, Quinn went back to the knife block. He took out the two largest knives. They were sharp, but they were kitchen tools. They felt flimsy and inadequate. He knew from his training that a fight like the one he just had was something you were lucky to survive once.
Mark came back holding a wooden baseball bat. He held it awkwardly, like he didn't know what to do with it.
Quinn took the bat from him, testing its weight. It was better than nothing. He gave Mark one of the large knives. "Keep this with you. Don't put it down."
Mark nodded, his hand shaking as he took the knife.
A brief moment of quiet fell inside the house. The barricades were up. The family was hidden. But the sounds outside continued—a distant shout, another crash, a single, horrifying shriek that was closer than the others.
Quinn, Mark, and Sarah, who had just come silently down the stairs, stood in the dim light of their fortified living room. They didn't speak. They just listened to the sounds of their world ending right outside their walls.
They were sealed in. They were trapped.