The floorboard creaked again, louder this time. Wood groaning under cautious weight. The guard at the door reacted instantly, spinning around, his hand flashing towards the pistol holstered at his hip. His eyes widened as they took in Quinn, rising from the shadows, knife raised, not three feet away.
There was no time for stealth now. No time for a silent kill. The guard opened his mouth to yell a warning–
Quinn exploded forward. He didn't aim for the kidney anymore. He lunged, driving the K-Bar hard into the center of the man's chest, aiming for the heart, putting all his weight behind the thrust. The blade punched through cloth, gristle, and bone with sickening force.
The guard's warning died in a choked gurgle. His eyes bulged, fixed on Quinn's face in disbelief and sudden agony. His hand, halfway to drawing his pistol, spasmed uselessly. Quinn wrenched the knife free with a brutal twist and shoved the man hard. He stumbled backwards against the front door, slid down it, leaving a glistening red smear on the wood, and collapsed in a heap.
Two down. But the damage was done.
"What the–?" One of the men at the table looked up, his drunken murmuring cut short by the sounds of the struggle – the gasp, the thud. His eyes widened as he saw Quinn standing near the door, knife dripping red. "Hey!"
He fumbled for his own weapon, shouting, "Frank? What's goin' on?"
Quinn didn't wait. He launched himself towards the table. The first man was still trying to clear his pistol from its holster. Quinn kicked the table leg hard, sending bottles and plates crashing. The man lost his balance, chair tipping backwards. Quinn vaulted over the corner of the table, landing almost on top of him just as the chair hit the floor.
He drove the knife down into the man's shoulder, pinning him to the floorboards, eliciting a scream of pain. Before the man could react further, Quinn slammed the heel of his boot into his temple. A sickening crunch, and the man went limp.
The second man at the table had managed to draw his pistol, a heavy revolver. He leveled it at Quinn, eyes wide with drunken panic. "Freeze, you–!"
Quinn grabbed the arm of the man he'd just pinned, hauling the dead weight up slightly to use as a shield. The revolver roared, the shot deafening in the enclosed room. The bullet slammed into the corpse Quinn held, rocking them both.
Quinn shoved the body aside and lunged under the gun arm, driving his shoulder hard into the man's gut. The man wheezed, stumbling back. Quinn brought the butt of his K-Bar handle down sharply on the man's wrist. Bones snapped. The revolver clattered to the floor. The man howled in pain, clutching his shattered wrist. Quinn silenced the howl permanently with a swift, vicious slash across the throat, mirroring the first kill by the chair.
Four down. Chaos erupted from the couch area.
The three men there had finally scrambled to their feet, fumbling with their own weapons – two pistols and a sawed-off shotgun. They were clumsy with surprise and alcohol, but they were armed and coming towards him.
Quinn kicked the fallen revolver away, not wanting to risk trying to grab it. He needed space. He backed away quickly, putting the overturned table between himself and the advancing trio.
"Shoot him!" one yelled, raising his pistol.
Quinn ducked just as a shot cracked past his head, splintering the wall behind him. He saw the man with the shotgun leveling the wide barrel. No time to think. He grabbed a heavy wooden chair, one that hadn't overturned, and hurled it bodily at the man with the shotgun.
The chair hit him square in the chest. He staggered back with an "Oof!", the shotgun firing harmlessly into the ceiling, raining down plaster dust.
Quinn used the momentary distraction. He sprinted around the table towards the man who had just shot at him. The man tried to track him, firing again, the shot going wild. Quinn closed the distance in two strides, batting the gun hand aside with his forearm, feeling the heat of the muzzle flash past his face. He slammed his forehead into the bridge of the man's nose. A sharp crack, a spray of blood. The man stumbled back, stunned, dropping his pistol. Quinn finished him with a quick stab to the neck, twisting the blade before pulling it free.
Five down.
The man hit by the chair was recovering, bringing the shotgun back up. The third man, who hadn't fired yet, raised his pistol, aiming carefully now. Two on one.
Quinn dove sideways behind one of the bulky armchairs just as the pistol cracked again, the bullet thudding into the upholstery inches from his head. Then the shotgun roared – BOOM! Buckshot shredded the back of the armchair, ripping through fabric and stuffing, spraying pellets across the room. Some stung Quinn's arm through his sleeve, drawing blood, but the chair absorbed the main blast.
He peered around the edge of the ruined chair. Shotgun guy was working the pump action, ejecting a spent shell. Pistol guy was lining up another shot.
Quinn saw the first man's dropped pistol lying on the floor near the wall. He needed a gun. He pushed off the floor, rolling low and fast towards the weapon. Pistol guy fired again, the bullet kicking up splinters from the floorboards beside Quinn's head. Quinn ignored it, his fingers closing around the checkered grip of the fallen pistol. Heavy, solid. He checked the slide – loaded.
He popped up from his roll, bringing the pistol to bear just as Shotgun guy finished racking his weapon. Quinn fired twice – bang! bang! – center mass. The heavy slugs slammed into the man's chest, throwing him backwards against the wall. He slid down, the shotgun clattering from lifeless fingers.
Six down.
Only Pistol guy left. He stood frozen for a fraction of a second, shock widening his eyes as his last companion fell. Then his survival instinct kicked in. He turned to run towards the front door.
Quinn sighted down the barrel of the borrowed pistol. "Stop," he commanded, his voice cold, steady.
The man skidded to a halt near the door, slowly raising his hands, his own pistol dangling forgotten from his fingers. He turned around slowly, face pale, eyes darting frantically between Quinn and the bodies littering the room.
"Don't shoot," the man stammered, sweat pouring down his face. "Please. I... I just do what Richter says. Just following orders."
Quinn kept the pistol leveled. He walked slowly towards the man, K-Bar still held ready in his other hand. He saw movement from the corner of his eye – the kitchen doorway. George stood there, his face utterly aghast, eyes wide with horror and disbelief as he took in the carnage. He held a cast iron frying pan like he'd meant to use it, but he was frozen, staring at the blood-spattered walls, the sprawled bodies, the deadly calm radiating from Quinn.
Quinn ignored George for the moment, focusing on the last survivor. The man trembled, hands held high. "Take whatever you want," the man pleaded. "Money, supplies... just let me go. I won't say nothin'. I swear."
Quinn stopped five feet away. He looked at the man – scared, pathetic, probably just a bully following a bigger bully. But he'd been content to guard a captive, to enforce Richter's cruel demands. He'd laughed and drank while Martha was terrified for her life. He was part of the disease.
"Where did Richter take her?" Quinn asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
The man blinked, confused by the question. "Huh? The old woman? Took her back to the compound. West of here. 'Bout ten miles. Old processing plant off Route 12." He was babbling now, desperate to please. "Keeps his prisoners there. Look, I can draw you a map..."
Quinn listened, absorbing the information. Compound. Route 12. Ten miles west.
"Thank you," Quinn said softly.
The man's eyes flickered with desperate hope. "So... you'll let me go?"
Quinn shook his head slowly, sadly. He raised the pistol.
"No," he said.
He fired once. The shot echoed in the sudden, terrible silence of the room. The man collapsed without a sound.
Seven down.
Silence descended, thick and absolute, broken only by Quinn's own harsh breathing and the faint dripping sound of blood pooling on the floorboards. He stood amidst the carnage, pistol still raised, K-Bar slick and red in his other hand. The smell of gunpowder, copper, and voided bowels filled the air.
He slowly lowered the pistol, the adrenaline starting to recede, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness and the familiar, ugly taste of violence. He looked at his hands – covered in blood that wasn't his.
George finally moved, stumbling forward from the kitchen doorway. He stared at the bodies, then at Quinn, his face a mixture of terror and dawning, horrified gratitude. The frying pan slipped from his numb fingers and clattered onto the floor.
"Lord have mercy," George whispered, his voice trembling. He looked around the room, at the destruction, the blood. He looked back at Quinn, really looked at him, as if seeing him for the first time – not just a desperate survivor, but something else. Something dangerous. Something necessary.
"They... they took Martha," George choked out, tears finally spilling down his weathered cheeks. "He took her."
Quinn nodded grimly, holstering the borrowed pistol, wiping his knife clean on the shirt of the last man he'd killed before sheathing it. The cold, tactical mind was already moving past the fight, focusing on the next objective.
"I know," Quinn said, his voice rough. "And you're going to tell me exactly how to get her back."