"Make a wish!" Elena beamed, holding the cake steady as six crooked candles flickered.
Mia scrunched her nose in thought, eyes darting between Quinn and Elena. "I wish… Daddy gets a haircut! He looks like a hobo!"
Quinn feigned offense, running a hand through his messy curls. "Excuse me? This is rugged survival chic."
"You look like a mop that gave up," Mia declared, triumphant.
Elena snorted, trying to stifle a laugh. "She's got a point."
Laughter filled the kitchen—a bubble of warmth sealed off from the world. Streamers drooped from the ceiling fan, balloons bobbed lazily near the window, and the scent of buttercream frosting wrapped around them like a blanket. A hand-lettered banner sagged from one thumbtack, reading Happy Birthday, Munchkin in glittery letters, the middle dipping where a rogue balloon had tugged it loose.
Quinn leaned in. "You're lucky you're cute, kiddo."
"I know," Mia said with a proud little shrug, then pointed at Elena. "And Elena's lucky she gets to live with us. Even if she makes weird green smoothies and smells like books."
"Wow," Elena said, mock-offended. "Rude. You're not getting seconds."
"Yes I am," Mia grinned.
The candle wax began to drip. Quinn nodded toward the cake. "Alright, munchkin. Blow 'em out before we need a fire extinguisher."
Mia puffed up her cheeks, ready.
Then a fly buzzed past Quinn's ear.
Another landed on the frosting.
Then came more. A cloud of them.
They poured in from nowhere, a living swarm crawling over the cake, the table—Mia's fingers.
Quinn's smile cracked.
The buzzing deepened, heavy and angry, blotting out the kitchen lights. Mia didn't move. Neither did Elena.
The flies were crawling into their mouths.
Quinn woke to screams.
Not panicked, not human. These were raw—animal sounds in a slaughterhouse.
Sunlight drilled into his skull. The right side of his face burned where it pressed against the hot asphalt. His ears rang with the drone of flies. Dozens. Close.
He blinked against the glare. Pebbles were embedded in his cheek. His tongue was thick with blood and dirt.
When he moved, pain screamed through his chest—ribs grinding with a sharp, wet crack. Breathing was agony. His fingers found his temple and came away slick.
Smoke stung his eyes. He turned toward the wreck.
His car was twisted around a lamppost—folded in half, front end collapsed inward like a crushed can. Steam hissed from the mangled hood. The windshield was a sheet of fractures. And inside—
The boy.
Still strapped in.
Head slumped against the wheel, neck bent wrong, eyes wide and glassy.
Just a favor. Just a ride.
Now Quinn couldn't breathe.
He tried to sit up. Collapsed.
Something wet crunched nearby.
He forced his eyes open.
Bodies. Strewn across the four-lane road like discarded mannequins.
A woman in a business suit sprawled face-down, torso split open. Her fingers reached for a phone lying shattered nearby: 911 CALL FAILED.
A police officer was slumped beside her, throat torn wide, hand still curled around an empty holster. His sidearm—gone.
The flies had found them.
Quinn gagged. He rolled to his knees, ribs howling. Vomit splashed the pavement, sour and laced with blood.
The city around him burned.
Flames bloomed across distant rooftops. Black smoke coiled upward in twisting towers. Ash drifted like dirty snow. On the corner, a city bus sat on its side, half-submerged in a fountain, emergency exit flapping open. A RiteSmart across the intersection had its front windows punched out. Toothpaste tubes and half-crushed antacids littered the sidewalk. Glass shards caught the sunlight, flaring like camera flashes over blood-streaked concrete.
To Quinn's right, a narrow alley split the block—choked with upended dumpsters and oil-slick garbage bags. Shadows shifted inside. Something scraped metal.
Then movement.
A figure.
It stepped into the light.
Quinn froze.
It turned toward him with a sharp snap, vertebrae popping as its neck overcorrected. Its jaw worked compulsively. Blood—no, flesh—hung from its teeth in ragged pink strands. Its shirt was soaked through. Skin grayed. Dead eyes locked onto him with recognition.
He staggered upright, leaning on the bent car door.
The infected moved.
Quick.
Quinn yanked the side mirror off its bracket—shattered glass still clinging to the frame. The infected charged.
It was on him in seconds, too fast for something leaking guts. It snarled as it lunged.
Quinn swung.
The jagged mirror bit into its temple. It shrieked in pain. Black fluid oozed, hot and slow. The thing grabbed his arm with inhuman force.
Pain shot through his ribs.
It drove him down.
They hit the pavement. Its weight pinned him. The stink of decay filled Quinn's lungs—wet copper and curdled meat. Its jaw stretched open.
He rammed the mirror up, burying it in the eye socket. The head jerked, body spasming. Still, the jaw snapped, trying to find his throat.
Quinn twisted the mirror until something ruptured inside. The thing twitched once.
Then slumped.
He shoved it off, panting.
Across the street, more movement.
Shadows—shifting in the smoke. Eyes catching the sun.
Six of them.
They emerged slowly, coordinated. One climbed over a wrecked cab's hood, another ducked under scaffolding, weaving between parked cars. Not mindless. Not random. Hunters.
One dragged a crowbar behind it, scraping the concrete with a sharp screech. Another nudged a fallen trash can with its foot, eyes never leaving Quinn.
He couldn't outrun them. Not like this.
He scanned for options. Left: the store. Twenty feet. RiteSmart's front window was shattered, glass hanging like icicles. A banner above the door read SALE EXTENDED, swaying in the breeze.
He moved.
Every step was fire. Broken glass tore through his soles. His knee buckled on the curb.
Something grabbed his ankle.
A cold hand. Fingers clamped tight.
He kicked backward. The mirror shard came down. A muffled grunt. The grip loosened.
He tumbled through the window, glass biting into his palms. Rolled behind a toppled display of detergent bottles. The air inside reeked—spoiled dairy, copper, rot.
Shadows loomed at the window.
One dropped down—landed in a crouch. Its head snapped side to side like sonar, listening.
Quinn's eyes swept the aisles.
A fire extinguisher.
Mounted behind the checkout counter, the bracket crooked from some earlier chaos.
He moved fast, lunging over sticky tiles.
The first infected crawled through. No hesitation. Eyes scanning, body tense.
Quinn yanked the extinguisher free as it stood.
He swung.
The steel cylinder crunched bone. The figure reeled—but didn't fall. It lunged again.
He pulled the pin with his teeth. White gas exploded from the nozzle.
It shrieked.
Its hands rose to shield its face.
Quinn brought the canister down again. This time it dropped.
He didn't wait.
He limped past aisles of pillaged goods—razor blades, canned soup, half-melted protein bars. The back of the store yawned open: EMPLOYEES ONLY.
Door ajar.
He slammed through, shoulder-first.
A stockroom. Dark and narrow. Shelves lined with unopened boxes, a toppled dolly near the wall. A rusting mini-fridge buzzed weakly. The fire exit in back had a deadbolt. Above it, a cracked red sign glowed faintly.
He turned and threw the bolt just as the infected slammed into the door.
The metal groaned.
But held.
He collapsed against a stack of bottled water. Blood smeared across his hands. His ribs felt broken. His knee barely held weight.
But he was alive.
For now.
Above him, a dying fluorescent light flickered.
Outside, they waited.
Learning.