From his crouched position behind the crashed car, Quinn scanned the street with a new objective. He wasn't looking for an escape route anymore. He was looking for a hiding place. A temporary fortress.
His eyes moved past the burning house, past the minivan surrounded by the dead, and settled on a two-story brick house on the corner. It looked untouched. The windows were intact, the lawn was neat, and there were no visible signs of forced entry. It seemed quiet. Too quiet.
But it wasn't the house itself that caught his attention. It was the small, sturdy-looking window at the base of the foundation. A basement window. It was small, reinforced with a metal frame, and set low to the ground, partially obscured by a thick azalea bush. It was a defensible entry point, much better than a door or a large first-floor window. It was their best chance.
"Okay," he whispered, his voice a low command. "New plan. See that brick house? The one on the corner? We're going in through the basement."
Sarah didn't respond. She was leaning against the car, her head slumped forward, her body trembling with fever. Quinn gently shook her good shoulder. "Sarah. We have to move. It's not far."
She looked up at him, her eyes clouded with delirium. "Mark…" she muttered, her voice raspy. "Mark is coming back for us. He said he would."
Quinn's heart twisted. He didn't have time for gentle persuasion. He had to be the soldier. "Mark wants us to be safe," he said, his tone firm but not unkind. "And this is how we get safe. I need you to walk. Can you do that for me?"
He helped her to her feet. She was unsteady, her weight almost entirely on him. Lily, still clutching his pant leg, looked up at her mother with wide, fearful eyes.
"It's okay, Lily," Quinn said, trying to reassure her. "We're just going to play a hiding game."
He planned their route: a short, exposed dash across the street to the cover of a large maple tree in the corner house's front yard, then a low crawl along the side of the house to the basement window. It was maybe fifty feet, but it felt like a mile.
"When I say go, we run. Don't stop for anything. You understand?" he said to Sarah. She gave a slow, jerky nod.
He peeked around the car one last time. The street was momentarily clear. The small group of infected that had passed them was now further down the block, distracted by something else. This was their moment.
"Go!"
Quinn practically carried Sarah as they ran. Her feet shuffled and dragged on the pavement. He held Lily's small hand, pulling her along. The open space felt vast and terrifying. Every shadow seemed to hold a threat. The blare of the car horn was a constant, unnerving soundtrack to their desperate flight.
They made it to the maple tree, collapsing behind its thick trunk, gasping for air. Quinn's lungs burned. He risked a look back. The street was still empty.
"Okay. Almost there," he whispered. "We crawl from here. Stay low."
He led them on his hands and knees, keeping the thick bushes between them and the street. They reached the side of the house and crawled to the small basement window. It was even better up close. The glass was thick, and the metal frame was set deep into the brick foundation.
Quinn took the end of the baseball bat and used it to pry at the edge of the window frame. It was stiff. He put his weight into it, and with a low groan of stressed metal, the lock gave way. The window swung inward, opening into darkness.
He stuck his head inside. The air was cool and smelled of damp earth and laundry detergent. It was a basement. It was quiet.
"Lily, you first," he said. He picked her up and gently lowered her through the window. She landed with a soft thud on the concrete floor below. "Now you, Sarah. I'll help you."
Getting Sarah through the small opening was difficult. She was weak and barely conscious, unable to help. Quinn had to carefully maneuver her limp body through the frame, half-lowering, half-dropping her into the darkness. She landed in a heap, moaning softly.
Finally, Quinn swung his own legs through and dropped down beside them, pulling the baseball bat in after him. He immediately pushed the window shut, engaging the broken lock as best he could. They were inside. They were hidden.
He took a moment, leaning against the cool concrete wall, his body screaming with exhaustion. The sounds from the street were muffled now, distant and less threatening. The only sounds in the basement were Sarah's ragged breathing and Lily's silent fear.
The basement was large and unfinished. A furnace and a water heater stood in one corner. Laundry baskets filled with clothes were scattered around. In the dim light from the small window, Quinn could see shelves filled with jars of preserved food. The family who lived here had been prepared for some kind of disaster, but clearly not this one.
His first priority was Sarah. He knelt beside her. She was muttering to herself now, nonsense words mixed with the names of her husband and her son. "Tom… he has his blue jacket… Mark, the car…"
Quinn pulled a clean t-shirt from a nearby laundry basket. He had no antiseptic, no real bandages. This was all he could do. He gently cleaned the blood from her arm, trying to get a better look at the wound. It was ugly and inflamed. The red streaks were darker now, climbing past her elbow.
"It's okay, Sarah," he said softly, more to himself than to her. He wrapped the t-shirt tightly around the bite, making a crude bandage. "It's going to be okay."
Lily had not moved from the spot where she landed. She stood like a small statue in the middle of the dark room, staring at nothing. In her hand, she was clutching a small, plastic unicorn that she must have had in her pocket.
Quinn went to her and crouched down. "Hey, squirt. We're safe here for a little while."
She didn't answer. She just stared, her knuckles white around the tiny toy.
Suddenly, a sound from right outside the window made Quinn freeze. It was the shuffling of feet, dragging on the grass. Then a low moan, right next to the glass. An infected was passing by.
Quinn instinctively put a hand on Lily's shoulder, holding his breath. They stayed perfectly still, listening. The shuffling continued, moving past their hiding spot and fading into the distance. The basement fell silent again.
He let out a slow, quiet breath. They were hidden, but they weren't safe. Not yet.
He stood up and began to secure their temporary refuge. He found a heavy wooden workbench against one wall and, with a huge effort, dragged it across the floor and shoved it in front of the small window, blocking it completely. The basement was plunged into near-total darkness.
Next, he found the door at the top of the basement stairs. It was a solid wooden door with a deadbolt. He locked it. Then he looked around for something to brace it with. He found an old, heavy metal pipe leaning in a corner. He wedged it under the doorknob, angling it against the concrete floor. It wouldn't stop a determined assault, but it would slow one down. It would give them warning.
Finally, with the room secured as best he could, the exhaustion hit him like a physical blow. His muscles ached, his mind felt numb, and the weight of their situation pressed down on him. He slid down the wall to the floor, the baseball bat resting across his lap.
He looked at the two people he had left. Lily, lost in her own silent world of shock. And Sarah, lying on the cold concrete, her breathing growing fainter. Her fever was raging. He had bought them some time, but he knew, with a sinking feeling of dread, that she was fading fast. He wasn't sure what would claim her first—the fever, or the thing it was turning her into.