The highway was a memory Quinn shoved down hard, like bile he refused to vomit up. He walked, putting distance between himself and the burning metal graveyard. He moved through the skeletal remains of suburban streets, past houses that stared with blank, broken windows. Each snapped twig, each rustle of wind-blown trash, made his head whip around, hand instinctively going to the K-Bar still slick on his belt. The fight on the road had scraped his nerves raw, leaving him jittery as a cat on hot bricks.
He needed supplies. Water, most importantly. Food that wouldn't spoil. Anything he could carry that might keep him moving. Home. Anna. The words were a steady drumbeat beneath the fear. Get home.
The silence here was different from the highway's heavy stillness. It was watchful. He felt unseen eyes following his progress. Were they the milky, dead eyes of those… things? He couldn't tell, and the not knowing was its own kind of torture.
Ahead, nestled between a laundromat with shattered glass doors and a boarded-up bookstore, was a small grocery store. "Miller's Market," the faded sign proclaimed. The glass doors were intact but dark. Locked, probably. Hope, thin but persistent, flickered in his chest. People locked doors. Maybe someone inside was still… people. Or maybe they'd locked it and fled. Or died.
He approached cautiously, sticking close to the brick walls, scanning the street, the rooftops, the shadowed alleyway beside the store. Nothing moved. He reached the doors. Locked, tight. He peered through the glass, hands cupped around his eyes. Darkness inside, but not absolute. Faint emergency lights glowed near the back, casting long, eerie shadows. He could make out overturned shopping carts, scattered products littering the aisles like fallen soldiers. It didn't look recently disturbed.
No easy way in. He circled around to the alley. It stank of garbage and something else, that same underlying sweet-rot smell that clung to the air everywhere now. A heavy steel door, probably for deliveries, was set into the brick wall. He tried the handle. Locked. Of course.
He looked around the alley. Overflowing dumpsters, piles of flattened cardboard boxes, a discarded bicycle frame. And leaning against the wall, a length of rusted pipe, maybe three feet long, thick and heavy. He hefted it. It felt good in his hands. Solid.
He positioned himself, planted his feet, and swung the pipe hard against the steel door, right near the lock mechanism. The clang echoed sharp and loud in the confined space. Too loud. He froze, listening, heart pounding. Waiting for the sound to draw unwanted attention, the quick, jerky movements he now knew meant death.
Silence answered him. Only the wind whispering through the alley.
He swung again. CLANG! Metal groaned. Again. CLANG! A dent appeared. He swung with desperate energy, fueled by thirst and the gnawing emptiness in his stomach. Sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging. Again! CLANG!
With a screech of protesting metal, the lock housing buckled inwards. The door sprang open a few inches.
He dropped the pipe, pulled his K-Bar, and eased the door open wider, slipping inside. He pulled the heavy door mostly shut behind him, leaving only a crack. Better than advertising an open entrance.
He was in a storeroom. Tall metal shelves reached towards the ceiling, stacked high with boxes of toilet paper, cleaning supplies, and bulk goods. The air was cool and smelled faintly of cardboard and dust. The only light came from the crack in the door and a dim emergency bulb flickering overhead.
He moved slowly, knife held ready, listening. The silence in here felt different. Pressed down, deliberate. He scanned the towering shelves, the dark corners. Nothing. Just boxes and shadows.
He eased through another door, this one lighter plastic, and found himself behind the checkout counters of the main store. More emergency lights glowed here, providing just enough visibility to see the aisles stretching away into gloom. Cans glinted faintly on shelves. Plastic wrappers rustled underfoot. The place looked like it had been hit by a tornado, but not thoroughly looted. Strange. Maybe whoever hit it got interrupted.
Survival kicked in. Water first. He scanned the aisles, spotted the sign for drinks near the back. He moved quickly now, but still cautiously, down an aisle filled with fallen cereal boxes and crushed bags of chips. He reached the refrigerated section. The power was out, the coolers dark and silent, but the doors were still closed. He pulled one open. Rows of bottled water, juice, soda. Untouched.
He grabbed three bottles of water, twisted the cap off one, and drank deeply. The cool liquid was the best thing he'd ever tasted. He drained half the bottle in seconds, stopping only when his stomach cramped in protest. He stuffed the other two bottles into the deep pockets of his fatigue pants.
Food next. He scanned the shelves nearby. Canned goods. Perfect. Baked beans, tuna, peaches. Heavy, but reliable. He began stuffing cans into other pockets, his jacket straining. He found a shelf of energy bars, grabbing a handful. He ripped one open – peanut butter, dry but packed with calories – and devoured it in three bites.
The small act of eating, of satisfying a basic need, felt like a victory. He paused near the chip aisle again. The bright bags seemed almost cheerful in the dim light. Impulse took over. He grabbed a family-sized bag of salt and vinegar chips, tore it open with his teeth, and stuffed a handful into his mouth. The sharp tang exploded on his tongue. He grabbed a can of cola from the cooler, popped the top, and drank, the cold, sugary fizz a shocking pleasure.
For a moment, leaning against a shelf, munching chips and gulping soda, the world outside, the highway, the things that hunted, seemed distant. He was just a guy in a store, getting a snack. He reached for another handful of chips, his guard down for just a second too long.
click.
The sound was soft, terrifyingly close, right beside his head. Cold metal pressed hard against his temple.
"Don't move," a low voice rasped. Male. Shaky. "Don't even breathe loud."
Quinn froze. Every muscle locked tight. The half-eaten chip fell from his fingers, hitting the floor with a small crunch that sounded like a gunshot in the silence. He could feel the tremor in the hand holding the gun. That was bad. Scared people with guns were unpredictable.
He slowly raised his empty hands, keeping the cola can in one, the K-Bar still blessedly sheathed at his belt. "Okay," he said, his voice calm, level. Training again. De-escalate. "Easy now. I'm not looking for trouble."
"A little late for that," another voice said, this one female, sharper, coming from his left. "Banging on the door like you're calling them for dinner."
He risked a slight turn of his head. He could see shapes detaching themselves from the deeper shadows between the aisles. Four of them. Maybe five. Dark figures in the dim light, moving quietly, surrounding him. The one with the gun stayed glued to his temple.
"Who are you?" Quinn asked, keeping his voice steady.
"Shut up," the shaky gunman hissed. Sweat or grease glinted on his forehead. He looked young, barely out of his teens, eyes wide with fear.
"We're the ones who were here before you decided to smash the door down," the woman said. She stepped further into the faint light. Mid-thirties maybe, lean, dark hair pulled back tight. She wore practical clothes, jeans and a worn jacket. Her eyes were hard, assessing. She wasn't holding a gun, but she moved with a coiled readiness he recognized. She held a tire iron like she knew how to use it.
"Look, I didn't know anyone was here," Quinn said. "I needed supplies. Water. Food." He gestured with the cola can. "Saw the place looked quiet."
"It was quiet," another man grunted, stepping forward. Older, heavier set, with a suspicious glare. "Until you showed up. How many more are with you?"
"None," Quinn said immediately. "I'm alone."
"Likely story," the older man scoffed. "You military?" He eyed Quinn's torn fatigues.
Before Quinn could answer, the woman spoke again, her voice cutting through the tension. "He moves like military. Or used to." She took another step closer, her eyes narrowed on Quinn's face, his stance. "What outfit?"
The question was direct, testing. The gunman pressed the barrel harder against Quinn's temple. "Answer her," he whispered, his voice cracking.
"Marines," Quinn said quietly. "Force Recon."
The woman's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes. Recognition? Respect? Hard to tell. "Sarah Monroe," she said, a slight nod. "Marines. Second Battalion."
A fellow Marine. Relief warred with caution in Quinn's chest. It could mean help. It could mean nothing.
"See? He's one of them," the older man, maybe the leader, spat. "Probably scouting for that bastard Vance and his cleanup crews."
"Vance?" Quinn frowned. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but the context was lost in the fog of his missing memories.
"Don't play dumb," the young gunman snarled. "They came through, took everything, shot anyone who argued. Said they were securing the area. Liars."
"This one wasn't with them," Sarah stated, her voice firm. "He came alone. And he fought his way here. Look at his face."
Quinn hadn't realized the scratches from the creature's claws were that obvious. Blood had dried in dark lines on his cheek.
"Maybe he got separated," the older man, let's call him Greg, argued. "Maybe he's leading them right to us."
"He needs supplies, Greg," Sarah countered. "Same as us. Look at him. He's desperate."
"We can't risk it," a fourth voice piped up, thin and reedy. A woman hiding further back. "He knows we're here now. We have to..." She trailed off, but the implication hung heavy in the air.
The gun barrel trembled against Quinn's skin. The kid holding it looked torn, glancing between Greg and Sarah.
"We kill him," Greg decided, his voice flat. "Take his knife, his water. Less mouth to feed, less risk."
"No," Sarah said sharply. She stepped directly between Quinn and Greg, planting the end of the tire iron firmly on the floor. "We don't kill him. We're not murderers."
"We're survivors, Sarah!" Greg shot back, his face flushed. "And he's a threat! Bringing noise, trouble..."
"He's a Marine," Sarah interrupted, her voice low and intense. "And right now, anyone who can fight, anyone who knows what they're doing, is an asset, not a threat. We don't have enough guns, Greg. We don't have enough people who know how to handle what's out there. He does."
"He could turn on us!" the kid whined, the gun wavering.
"He could also help us," Sarah insisted. She looked back at Quinn, her eyes locking with his. "You looking for a place to hole up? Or are you moving on?"
Quinn didn't hesitate. "Moving on. I have to get somewhere." Home. Anna.
Sarah nodded slowly. "Alright. Greg, listen. We let him finish stocking up – reasonably. Then he leaves. We haven't seen him, he hasn't seen us properly in this light. Plausible deniability."
Greg looked furious, but also uncertain. He glanced at the others. The young gunman looked relieved at the prospect of not having to pull the trigger. The reedy woman still looked terrified.
"And how do we know he won't just bring his buddies back?" Greg demanded.
"Because I'm going with him for a few blocks," Sarah said calmly. "Make sure he clears the area. And if he tries anything…" She hefted the tire iron meaningfully.
Greg stared at her, then at Quinn, his eyes filled with suspicion. Quinn kept his hands raised, his expression neutral. He could feel the tension vibrating in the small group. They were scared, hungry, pushed to the edge. Greg was losing control, and Sarah was stepping in.
"Fine," Greg finally spat, unable to meet Sarah's steady gaze. "Fine! But if this goes bad, Sarah, it's on you." He glared at Quinn. "Get what you need. Quickly. Then get out." He jerked his head at the young gunman. "Put the gun down, Mikey. But keep it ready."
Mikey lowered the pistol with a shaky hand, though he still kept it pointed vaguely in Quinn's direction. The immediate pressure was off, but the air still crackled.
Sarah gave Quinn a curt nod. "Ten minutes. Fill a bag, not your pockets like a damned amateur. There are backpacks by the office." She watched him, her expression unreadable but alert.
Quinn let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He lowered his hands slowly. He found a discarded backpack near the front registers and started methodically gathering essentials – more cans, water purification tablets from a camping display he spotted, bandages and antiseptic wipes from the pharmacy aisle, another box of energy bars. He worked quickly, aware of five pairs of eyes watching his every move.
He didn't take too much. Just enough to keep him going for a few days. Enough to maybe make it home.
When he was done, he slung the backpack over his shoulder. It felt heavy, but reassuring.
"Ready?" Sarah asked. She hadn't moved from her spot.
Quinn nodded. "Ready."
"Alright," she said to the others. "Keep the back door secured. Don't open it for anyone." She glanced back at Quinn. "Let's go. Out the front. Quietly."
She led the way, tire iron held loosely but ready, towards the dark front doors. Quinn followed close behind, acutely aware of Greg, Mikey, and the others watching them leave, guns probably aimed at their backs. Stepping out of the relative safety of the store felt like jumping back into ice water, but staying wasn't an option. Not with Greg calling the shots.
Sarah unlatched the front door, peered out into the fading light, then slipped through. Quinn followed, pulling the door shut behind them until it clicked softly. They stood for a moment on the sidewalk, letting their eyes adjust, listening to the whispering wind and the distant, unsettling silence of the dead world.
"This way," Sarah murmured, nodding down the street, away from the highway. "We'll cut through the park. Less visibility."
Quinn fell into step beside her, the weight of the backpack solid against his spine, the K-Bar bumping comfortingly against his thigh. He didn't know if he could trust Sarah Monroe, the fellow Marine with the hard eyes and the tire iron. But for now, they were moving in the same direction. And in this new world, that was something.