The doorframe exploded inward with a crack like a bone breaking in the dark. Wood splinters sprayed across the tile floor, skidding beneath the kitchen table. Quinn barely registered the noise before the first infected surged through the breach.
Elena reacted before he did. With a cry, she stepped in, pivoted, and brought the cast-iron skillet down on the creature's skull. The impact echoed off the plaster walls like a hammer to concrete. The Infected collapsed at her feet, limbs spasming in brief aftershocks.
No time to breathe.
From behind the kitchen island, another shape lunged. Its fingers scraped the linoleum as it propelled itself forward, snarling, mouth unhinging wider than seemed human. Between cracked lips, Quinn caught the gleam of jagged black teeth.
He dropped low, rolling across the floor. His fingers found the hunting knife on his belt and he came up slashing, aiming for its neck. The blade bit deep into skin that had no warmth.
The thing hissed and recoiled, but not from pain. Its expression didn't change. But it adapted. Adjusted. One hand braced the wound while the other swept forward, claws raking across Quinn's arm. Fabric shredded. A burn tore through his skin, and warmth spilled from the gash.
Pain meant he was still alive.
"Elena!" he gasped, staggering backward.
Her scream answered him.
He turned—saw her near the sink, staggering against the counter, one shoulder painted with blood. A third infected loomed in the hallway behind her, half-hidden in shadow, pacing slowly like it knew it had time.
Elena caught his eye. Her expression carved itself into his memory—eyes wide with pain.
"Go!" she rasped. Her voice was raw but sharp. "Get out! Now!"
"Not without you," he started—but she shoved him. Hard.
"Now, Quinn!"
Her left hand held the counter; her right raised the skillet again, the edge trembling from adrenaline and blood loss.
The hallway was a tunnel behind her, shadows shifting. Something breathed heavily—low and rhythmic, just beyond view.
Why weren't the infected attacking? Instead, they paced around sizing him up.
Quinn backed up once, twice, then turned and sprinted. The apartment's layout blurred around him—bathroom door ajar, hallway lamp knocked askew, the trail of blood leading back toward the living room.
Behind him: glass shattered. Something growled. Then the front windows blew inward. The infected were flooding in.
He burst through the stairwell door. Up one level. Rooftop access.
The air outside hit him like a slap—cold, salt-laced, thick with smoke. Below, the city howled with alarm. Quinn crossed the roof in five strides, vaulted the railing, and found the fire escape by memory. He grabbed the ladder and descended fast, skipping every third rung. Rust flaked under his palms.
He landed hard in the alley, knees jarring. Trash bags ruptured beneath his boots. He looked up.
A single shot rang out from the apartment above.
Then silence.
Quinn froze. The pistol crack echoed off the alley walls, a dry punctuation to something final.
He waited—hoped—but no second shot followed. No scream. No movement.
Above, flames licked at the top-floor curtains. The fire had spread.
A window shattered outward. Fire spilled into the night air—orange and furious. Glass rained down like meteors. The building exhaled black smoke that curled like claws into the dark.
His legs gave out. He slid to the ground, back against the wall, fingers clawing at the damp, gritty pavement. For a moment, everything narrowed.
Noise blurred. Light dimmed.
Then breath returned—tight, shallow. He forced himself upright and stumbled toward the street.
Midtown looked like it had been bombed.
Cars crisscrossed the roads in a chaos of sudden stops—some had hit light poles, others left doors open as if passengers had fled mid-drive. Sidewalks were littered with debris: grocery bags, broken phones, shattered glasses. A bike lay in the crosswalk, its frame bent like snapped bone.
Neon signs buzzed and flickered: COFFEE, PHARMACY, SUPERMART—but their glow looked ghostly through the smoke. Streetlamps pulsed like they were losing power.
Ash fell from the sky in slow, silent flakes.
He coughed. His lungs burned. Somewhere behind him, more sirens screamed—distant and useless.
He reached his car—a battered silver sedan parked half in shadow near the corner bodega. The back window was cracked, but the keys were still in his pocket. He slid into the driver's seat, hands trembling, and turned the ignition.
It caught on the second try.
The tires crunched over debris as he pulled into the road.
Quinn drove blind, only half-seeing. Ash smeared the windshield. His shoulder throbbed. The knife still sat in the passenger seat, blood not his.
As he neared the old fountain plaza, he hit the brakes.
A boy stood in the road. Barefoot. Nine, maybe ten. Shivering.
Quinn flung open his door, ran out, and scooped the kid up under the arms.
The boy didn't scream. Didn't resist. Just stared ahead, lips moving silently.
Quinn placed him gently in the front seat and jumped behind the wheel again. "Hey! Kid! Look at me!"
Nothing.
He swerved around an overturned delivery van. "Talk to me! Where are your parents?"
Still nothing—until a whisper broke through the hum of tires. "Mom…"
Quinn's eyes flicked over. "She back there?"
The boy shook his head violently. "She changed. After Dad bit her. In the kitchen."
Quinn's knuckles whitened. "Dark eyes?"
The boy nodded, lip trembling.
"Jesus." Quinn gritted his teeth.
"They smelled me," the boy whispered. "Sniffing. Like... dogs. Like they knew someone was hiding. I didn't breathe. Then they went into the hall. I ran out the back."
Quinn swallowed. That fit. The infected in the apartment—they hadn't been hunting randomly. They moved in formation. Waited at corners. Pushed together. Not mindless.
The boy looked at him, eyes rimmed red. "Why'd Dad do that?"
"I don't know." The lie scraped like glass.
But Quinn reached out anyway, gave the boy's shoulder a quick squeeze. "You did the right thing. You ran. You survived. That matters."
The kid hugged his knees, curling in on himself. Silent again.
Then the buzz hit—soft, rhythmic. His phone.
Quinn yanked it from his pocket. MARSOC PRIORITY CHANNEL.
That tone hadn't come through since Tehran. Only black-level clearance used it.
"Sergeant Quinn." A voice, cold and clipped. "Vance, Spec Ops Command."
The voice could've been AI—flat, relentless. "PandoraLabs ran a live demo in Manhattan tonight. You've seen the result. A juvenile asset was flagged near the origin site. A female child. Mia's age. DNA match in progress."
His heart locked.
"Mia? You're saying she's alive?"
"Sixty percent probability. We tracked Pandora staff to a private Gulfstream at Teterboro—departing within the hour. Destination: Singapore."
Quinn's brain fired off calculations. Time. Distance. Probability.
He'd stormed a Pandora site once before. Jakarta. Six survivors went in. Only three came out.
"Why me?"
"Because you know how they move," Vance replied. "And because the USS America is in position for a surgical strike. Help us cripple their Southeast Asia node—we open the whole network. You get a shot at your daughter."
Quinn blinked once. A dumpster exploded two blocks ahead—someone tossed a Molotov too close. The boy flinched. Quinn didn't.
"Extraction?"
"Chrysler Building. Roof. Helipad 78. Ninety minutes. Then we're gone."
The line cut. No farewell. Just silence.
He looked at the kid beside him—traumatized, broken, breathing but barely whole.
Then he pressed the gas. Hard.
Smoke veiled the skyline. But the Chrysler spire still glinted—piercing upward like a dagger through the heavens.
He reached the intersection by city hall.
A black SUV tore across the light—wrong direction, no lights on.
He saw it a half-second too late.
Brakes screamed.
Metal collided.
The world flipped sideways.
Glass shattered like rain.
The engine screamed. Something sharp carved through fabric, skin, steel—
—and then:
Darkness.