The silence in the aftermath was profound, broken only by George's ragged breathing and the slow, steady drip of blood from the edge of the dining table onto the floorboards. Quinn stood still for a long moment, letting the adrenaline ebb, taking stock of the room. Seven bodies lay sprawled in unnatural angles, the metallic tang of blood thick in the air. It was a butcher shop. Necessary, maybe, but ugly.
George stumbled further into the room, his eyes wide, unfocused. He looked like he might collapse. Quinn moved quickly, grabbing the old man's arm, steadying him.
"George," Quinn said, his voice firm but quiet. "George, look at me."
The old man's eyes slowly focused on Quinn, still filled with shock, but also a glimmer of returning awareness.
"They… you…" George stammered, unable to form a complete sentence.
"They're gone," Quinn stated simply. "But Martha isn't back. We need to focus on that." He steered George away from the worst of the carnage, towards the kitchen doorway. "We need to get Sarah and Helen out of the cellar. And then you need to tell me everything you know about Richter's compound."
George nodded numbly, letting Quinn lead him. The immediate task seemed to anchor him slightly. Quinn pulled the rug aside again and lifted the heavy trapdoor.
"Sarah? Helen?" he called down softly. "It's clear. Come on up."
He reached down to help Sarah first. She emerged slowly, cautiously, her face pale as she took in the scene. Her eyes widened, sweeping over the bodies, the bloodstains, the general destruction. She looked at Quinn, a complex mix of shock, grim understanding, and maybe a little fear in her gaze. She leaned heavily against the doorframe, clearly shaken but resolute.
Helen came next, scrambling up the steps quickly. Quinn deliberately blocked her view of the worst of it, turning her towards the kitchen. "Go with George," he said gently but firmly. "Stay in the kitchen for now."
Helen glanced past him for only a second, her eyes catching sight of a sprawled hand, before quickly looking away, her face white. She nodded silently and followed George into the kitchen without a word.
Quinn closed the trapdoor, replaced the rug, then faced Sarah.
"You okay?" he asked.
She nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah. Just… wow." She gestured vaguely at the room. "You didn't waste any time."
"Didn't have any to waste," Quinn said flatly. He didn't want to talk about it. He walked over to the duffle bag, ignoring the bodies as best he could. He needed to prepare. "George," he called towards the kitchen. "Come out here. Tell me about the compound."
George reappeared, Helen standing uncertainly behind him. He seemed marginally calmer now, his focus shifting from the immediate horror to the ongoing threat to Martha. He avoided looking directly at the bodies, his gaze fixed on Quinn.
"The old processing plant," George began, his voice raspy. "Meat packing place, shut down years ago. Richter and his boys took it over right after the SIF thing hit hard. Fenced it off tight. Barbed wire, reinforced gates."
"How many men?" Quinn asked, pulling weapons from the duffle bag, laying them out on the less blood-spattered end of the dining table – pistols, spare magazines, the two shotguns, boxes of shells.
"Saw fifteen, maybe twenty, last time I was forced out there," George said, wringing his hands. "He cycles 'em. Some guard the walls, some patrol inside. Got watchtowers – old water towers, probably – at the north and south ends."
"Layout?" Quinn prompted, checking the action on one of the pistols, a solid-looking semi-automatic.
"Big main building, brick. Where they processed the meat. Thick walls, few windows downstairs. That's likely where he keeps… where Martha is. Holding cells in the old freezer lockers, maybe. Offices upstairs. Then there's outbuildings – old garages, sheds. They use 'em for storage, barracks."
"Defenses? Dogs? Alarms?"
George shook his head. "Ain't seen dogs. Alarms… doubtful. Power's spotty out here. Mostly generators. They rely on manpower. Guns. Keeping folks scared." He pointed towards the west. "Main gate faces east, off Route 12. Heavy steel. Always guarded. Back side… faces the woods. More fences, but maybe less watched?"
Quinn absorbed the information, building a mental map. Fifteen to twenty men. Watchtowers. Main building likely target. Back approach potentially weaker. He selected the semi-automatic pistol he'd checked, plus three full magazines, sliding them into his pockets and waistband. He kept the K-Bar strapped securely to his belt. He looked at the shotguns, then discarded the idea. Too loud, too bulky for stealth.
"I'm going with you," Sarah said suddenly from the couch. She had pushed herself upright, her face set with determination, though her skin still looked pale.
Quinn turned to her. "No, you're not."
"Like hell I'm not," she retorted, swinging her legs carefully off the couch, testing her weight on her injured leg. She winced but held steady. "You're going up against potentially twenty armed men alone? That's suicide, Quinn. You need backup."
"I need you here," Quinn countered firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument. "You need to guard George and Helen. Your leg's not healed. You'd slow me down, get us both killed." He met her defiant gaze. "This is infiltration, Sarah. Stealth. Not a firefight if I can help it. I go alone."
Sarah opened her mouth to argue again, but saw the absolute resolve in his eyes. She clamped her jaw shut, frustration and worry warring on her face. She hated being sidelined, especially when he was walking into such obvious danger, but she knew he was right about her leg. She nodded curtly, sinking back onto the couch, reaching for the shotgun George had left nearby. "Fine. But you come back, Marine. Understood?"
"Understood," Quinn replied. He turned back to George. "Draw me a map. Route 12, the plant, fences, gates, towers. Everything you remember."
George nodded quickly, finding a burnt stick from the stove and sketching rapidly on the back of an old feed sack wrapper Martha had left on the counter. He detailed the road, the turnoff, the approximate layout of the compound, marking the main building, towers, and the wooded area to the west.
Quinn studied the crude map intently, memorizing the layout. "Okay. Keep the doors bolted. Don't open them for anyone but me. Use the guns if you have to." He looked at Sarah, then at Helen peering out from the kitchen. "Stay down. Stay safe."
He grabbed his backpack, checked his water bottles, slung it over his shoulder, and headed for the front door, stepping carefully around the body slumped against it. George unbolted the door, pulling it open just enough for Quinn to slip through.
"Godspeed, son," the old man whispered, his eyes filled with fear for Martha, and maybe for Quinn too.
Quinn nodded once, then slipped out into the bright, indifferent sunlight. He got into the SUV, the engine starting quickly with a low rumble. He glanced back at the farmhouse, seeing the door shut tight, the bolts slamming home again. He was on his own.
He followed George's map, driving west on the cracked country roads, leaving the temporary, blood-stained sanctuary behind. The fields rolled past, empty and silent under the afternoon sun. Ten miles, George had said. It felt like a hundred. His mind raced, replaying George's description, planning approach routes, contingencies. Fifteen or twenty men. One K-Bar, one pistol. The odds were ridiculous. But Martha's terrified face, George's tear-streaked cheeks – they fueled a cold, sharp determination.
He found Route 12, then the barely marked turnoff George had described. He parked the SUV deep in a thicket of overgrown bushes about half a mile from where the map indicated the plant should be, concealing it as best he could. He took the pistol, checked the chamber, tucked it securely in his waistband, and pulled the K-Bar, gripping the familiar handle. Then he started moving, low and fast, through the tall grass and sparse woods bordering the road, heading towards the compound.
After ten minutes of cautious movement, he saw it. Rising above the trees were the rusted tops of two old water towers. Beneath them, partially visible through the foliage, was the long, low shape of the main brick building and the glint of sunlight off chain-link and barbed wire. Richter's compound.
Quinn dropped into cover behind a thick oak tree on a slight rise overlooking the facility. From here, he had a decent view of the western perimeter – the side backing onto the woods, as George had said. He pulled a small pair of binoculars from his backpack – scavenged from the highway wreckage – and began his reconnaissance.
The fence was high, topped with razor wire, just as George described. He could see guards patrolling the top of the main building's flat roof, small figures pacing back and forth, rifles slung over their shoulders. He scanned the fence line. Another guard walked patrol along the perimeter, disappearing behind an outbuilding, then reappearing moments later. Their pattern seemed regular, predictable.
He swept the binoculars along the fence line again. And then he saw it. Near the southwest corner, where the fence met a crumbling section of old brick wall that might have been part of the original property line, a large oak tree grew close to the fence. Its thickest lower branches stretched out, reaching over the top of the razor wire by a few feet. Below the tree, the ground was littered with leaves and shadowed, seemingly out of the direct line of sight from the nearest tower and the rooftop patrols.
It was a way in. Risky. Exposed during the climb. But possible.
He watched the patrolling guard make another circuit. Watched the rooftop sentries pace. Calculated the timing.
He lowered the binoculars, his decision made. He checked his weapons one last time, took a deep breath, and began moving silently through the undergrowth towards the base of the large oak tree. The infiltration had begun.