The rusty metal groaned under Sarah's weight as she swung herself onto the fire escape ladder. She started down, the heavy duffle bag bumping awkwardly against her back, the shotgun held ready in one hand. Quinn watched from above, his own shotgun now slung tight, waiting his turn. The alley below was a pit of blackness.
Sarah moved steadily at first, finding her rhythm on the narrow rungs. Then, about halfway down, her boot slipped on a patch of damp metal. The heavy bag shifted violently, pulling her off balance. A small gasp escaped her as she lurched sideways, one hand scrabbling for a secure grip, the other flailing slightly.
Quinn didn't think. He dropped onto the ladder faster than intended, metal ringing under his boots. Reaching down with his free hand, ignoring the strain on his own grip, he clamped onto Sarah's shoulder, steadying her against the railing.
"Gotcha!" he grunted through clenched teeth.
Sarah found her footing again, breathing hard. "Thanks," she muttered, her voice tight. "Damn bag."
She continued down more cautiously, Quinn following close behind, his hand hovering near her back just in case. They reached the bottom rung and dropped the last few feet onto the cracked pavement of the alley, landing lightly. The sounds of the creatures pounding on the front door of the building they'd escaped seemed muffled back here, but not gone entirely.
They paused, listening. Nothing seemed to be moving in the immediate darkness of the alley. No clicks, no hisses. Just the distant thumping and the whisper of the night wind.
"Clear?" Quinn whispered.
Sarah nodded, already scanning the alley mouth leading back towards the street. "Looks like it. Let's move. Away from that building."
They moved quickly and quietly, hugging the shadows of the brick walls. They crossed the mouth of the alley, risked a quick glance down the street – the cluster of creatures was still vaguely visible near the barricaded front door, drawn by lingering scent or memory – then darted across the road into the deeper shadows on the other side.
They moved like wraiths, flitting from doorway to dumpster, using overturned cars and piles of trash for cover. Every shadow seemed to hold a threat, every distant scrape of metal sent jolts of adrenaline through Quinn's system. They needed real shelter, somewhere less exposed than the street.
Ahead, Quinn spotted it. A ranch-style house, dark like all the others, but its attached garage door was slightly askew, lifted about two feet off the ground, creating a black, inviting gap.
He signaled to Sarah, pointing. She nodded. Keeping low, they sprinted the last twenty yards across a dead lawn, weeds poking through cracked concrete, and slid one after the other under the heavy garage door into the relative blackness within. Quinn immediately pulled the door down the last few feet until it settled with a soft thud, cutting off the outside world.
Silence. Darkness. The smell of oil, old tires, and dust.
Quinn leaned back against the inside of the door, letting out a slow breath. His heart was hammering. Sarah slumped down beside him, resting the duffle bag on the concrete floor with a heavy thump.
"Safe," she breathed. "For a minute, anyway."
"Yeah," Quinn agreed. The darkness felt thick, protective.
After a moment, Sarah started rummaging in the side pocket of the duffle bag. "Got this from the party room," she murmured, pulling out a small, sturdy flashlight. She clicked the switch. Nothing. She clicked it again. "Come on, you piece of..." She smacked it firmly against the palm of her hand.
Click. A bright white beam cut through the darkness, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
"Better," she said, sounding pleased. She swept the beam around the garage. It was packed tight. Garden tools hung on the walls. Shelves overflowed with paint cans and storage boxes. Bicycles leaned against one wall. And under a large, shapeless grey tarp in the center of the space sat a large, boxy shape.
"What's that?" Quinn asked, nodding towards the tarp.
Sarah played the light over it. "Looks like boxes maybe? Storage?" She walked over and grabbed a corner of the dusty tarp, pulling it back.
Underneath wasn't boxes. It was metal and glass. A car. An older model SUV, boxy and practical, covered in a fine layer of dust but otherwise looking intact.
"Well, now," Sarah said, her voice filled with cautious optimism. She ran the light over the tires – inflated. She peered through the driver's side window. "Keys!" she hissed excitedly. "Keys are in the ignition!"
Quinn felt a surge of hope unlike anything since he'd woken up on the highway. A working vehicle. Freedom. Mobility. A way to cover distance much faster than on foot. A way home.
"Check it," he said, moving towards the driver's door. He pulled the handle. Unlocked. He slid into the driver's seat, the familiar feel of the steering wheel solid under his hands. He turned the key.
The dashboard lights flickered on instantly. The fuel gauge needle climbed to just over half a tank. He turned the key further. The engine sputtered once, twice, then caught with a low, healthy rumble that sounded impossibly loud in the enclosed space. He killed it immediately.
"It works," he whispered, almost unable to believe it. "It actually works."
"Thank God," Sarah breathed.
They quickly transferred their backpacks and the heavy duffle bag full of weapons into the back seat of the SUV. Quinn slid back behind the wheel, the feel of potential escape making his hands tremble slightly. Sarah stood near the front bumper, her shotgun held loosely.
"Okay," Quinn said, reaching for the garage door opener remote clipped to the sun visor. "Ready?"
Flicker-buzz.
Overhead, the single bare bulb in the garage ceiling flickered erratically, then sprang to life, bathing the cluttered space in harsh fluorescent light.
Quinn and Sarah froze instantly, eyes snapping towards the interior door.
Click.
The distinct sound of a deadbolt sliding back echoed in the sudden brightness. The doorknob turned.
The door swung inward, revealing a figure standing silhouetted against the light from the house beyond. Quinn squinted. It wasn't an adult. It was a child. A girl, small and thin, looking maybe ten years old. And she was holding an AK-47 assault rifle like she was born with it, the muzzle pointed directly at Quinn's chest.
"Get out of the car," the girl commanded, her voice surprisingly steady, chillingly devoid of childish inflection. "Both of you. Hands where I can see them. Now. Or I put a hole between your eyes."
Quinn slowly raised his hands from the steering wheel. Beside the car, Sarah did the same, her face a mask of disbelief. This tiny girl, wielding a weapon that looked almost as big as she was, radiated a cold, hard menace that felt terrifyingly real. What had this world done to its children?
"Easy there, kid," Sarah said, forcing a placating tone that sounded entirely wrong. "We're not gonna hurt you. Just borrowing the car." She took a half-step forward. "Why don't you put that heavy thing down before you hurt yourself? It's okay."
"Don't call me kid," the girl snapped, her eyes narrowing. The rifle didn't waver. "And don't move again. I told you. Get out." She clearly didn't believe Sarah's attempt at soothing talk. She'd probably heard too many lies already.
"Look," Sarah tried again, impatience creeping into her voice. "We don't have time for games. There are bad things outside. We need the car to get away. Just let us go."
"Maybe you're the bad things," the girl countered, her small face grim. "Trying to steal our car. Trying to..."
"Oh, for crying out loud," Sarah cut her off, exasperated. "You gonna shoot us? Really? With that big toy?"
It was the wrong thing to say. Quinn saw the shift in the girl's eyes, a flicker of cold decision hardening her features. Before he could yell a warning, she adjusted her aim slightly, pulling the trigger.
CRACK!
The report of the AK-47 was deafening in the confined space. Sarah cried out, stumbling back against the workbench, clutching her thigh. Blood blossomed instantly through the fabric of her jeans, high up, near the hip. The girl hadn't aimed to kill, but she hadn't hesitated to wound. She knew exactly what she was doing.
"Sarah!" Quinn started to move, but the rifle barrel swung instantly back to his face.
"Stay put!" the girl ordered, her voice shaking slightly now, maybe from the recoil or the reality of having fired, but her aim was steady. "I told you not to move! I told you I wasn't playing!"
"Okay! Okay!" Quinn said quickly, keeping his hands raised high. "Nobody else moves. We hear you. You proved your point." He looked at Sarah, who was leaning heavily against the workbench, her face pale, eyes wide with shock and pain. The bleeding looked bad, but maybe not arterial. "Sarah, you okay?"
"Peachy," she gasped through gritted teeth.
Quinn turned his attention back to the girl. He needed to calm her down, fast. "What's your name?" he asked, keeping his voice low and steady, non-threatening.
The girl hesitated, suspicion warring with something else in her eyes. "Why?"
"Just asking," Quinn said gently. "My name's Quinn. That's Sarah. We mean you no harm. We were just trying to get away."
She watched him for a long moment, the rifle still aimed at his head. "Helen," she said finally, the name barely a whisper.
The name hit Quinn like a physical blow. Helen. The name from the pink backpack on the highway. It couldn't be a coincidence. A flicker of memory, sharp and clear this time – the pink unicorns, the neat plastic tag. He stared at the small, fierce girl holding the assault rifle.
"Helen?" he repeated, a strange mix of shock and recognition in his voice. He didn't mention the backpack, didn't know how to explain it yet. Just the name itself felt significant, charged. "Helen McLean?"
The girl's eyes widened slightly. Confusion spread across her face, softening the hard lines for just a second. The rifle barrel lowered almost imperceptibly. "How... how do you know my name?" she started to ask, her voice losing its cold edge, replaced by genuine bewilderment.
"Look, we don't have time for this!" Quinn cut her off urgently, glancing towards the garage door. The gunshot. It was too loud. They wouldn't have missed that. "They heard that shot, Helen! We have to go! Right now!"
Even as the words left his mouth, a sound slithered into the sudden silence from just outside the garage door. A wet, guttural whisper, distorted and chillingly close.
"Iiiiii cannnn heeeear yooooou..."
Helen gasped, her eyes darting towards the garage door, fear finally overriding her aggression.
"Get in!" Quinn yelled, not waiting for an answer. He reached over, yanked open the passenger door. "Helen, get in the back! Sarah, move!"
Adrenaline surged. Helen scrambled into the back seat, dropping onto the floor behind the front seats, clutching the rifle. Sarah, grimacing in pain, half-limped, half-fell into the passenger seat. Quinn slammed the passenger door shut, hit the button on the visor remote.
The garage door started to lift with a mechanical groan. Quinn turned the key, the engine roaring back to life.
Through the rising gap, Quinn saw it. A single figure, impossibly pale and gaunt, stood just beyond the driveway, head cocked, milky eyes fixed on the sound and light spilling from the garage. A Whisperer. As the garage door reached halfway, it broke into a horrifyingly fast, loping run, straight towards the opening, mouth stretched wide in a silent scream.
Helen screamed from the back seat, a genuine child's scream of terror this time.
Quinn stomped on the accelerator. The SUV lurched backwards out of the garage, tires squealing on the concrete. He wrenched the steering wheel hard right. The charging Whisperer, committed to its forward momentum, shot past the driver's side window by inches, its clawed hand scraping uselessly along the door panel.
The SUV bumped hard as it hit the curb, then straightened out onto the street. Quinn didn't look back, but he heard it – more clicks, more hisses, the slap of bare feet on pavement gathering behind them. The gunshot and the noise of their escape had rung the dinner bell again. A quick glance in the rearview mirror confirmed it – dark shapes were pouring out from between houses, joining the first Whisperer, already turning to give chase.
They were clear of the garage. But they were far from safe.