The darkness in the basement was thick and heavy, a silence broken only by the shallow, ragged rhythm of Sarah's breathing. Quinn sat on the cold concrete floor, his back against the wall, the baseball bat across his lap. Exhaustion was a physical weight, pressing down on his shoulders, making his eyelids feel like lead. Every muscle screamed in protest. He hadn't slept, hadn't dared to close his eyes for more than a few seconds at a time. He just listened to the muffled sounds of the broken world outside and the far more terrifying sound of his sister fading away beside him.
Lily was asleep, finally, curled into a tight ball near his leg. She had cried herself into a state of pure exhaustion, her small plastic unicorn still clutched in her hand. Seeing her small, still form was a sharp pain in Quinn's chest, a tangible reminder of everything they had lost and everything he now had to protect.
He focused again on Sarah's breathing. It was the metronome of their crisis. As long as it continued, there was a sliver of hope, however irrational. But it was slowing, each breath a longer, more difficult struggle than the last. The t-shirt wrapped around her arm was stiff with dried blood.
He was watching her chest rise and fall when a faint sound cut through the silence.
"Quinn…"
It was a bare whisper, so quiet he almost thought he'd imagined it. He leaned closer. "Sarah?"
Her hand, the one that wasn't wounded, moved feebly on the floor, her fingers twitching. She was trying to reach for him. He immediately took her hand in his. It was shockingly cold, a stark contrast to the burning heat he could feel radiating from the rest of her body.
Her eyes fluttered open. For a moment, they were glassy and unfocused, lost in the delirium of the fever. But then, they sharpened. The fog seemed to clear, replaced by a sudden, terrifying clarity. She was looking right at him. She was here.
"Quinn," she said again, her voice stronger this time, though still raspy. She squeezed his hand with a surprising amount of strength. "Look at me."
He met her gaze. He saw his sister there, the real Sarah. But he also saw the knowledge in her eyes, the calm and certain finality of someone who knows their time is up.
"It's too late," she whispered, her words clear and precise. "For me. The bite…"
"Don't say that, Sarah," he said, his own voice thick. A lump of jagged rock felt lodged in his throat. "We're safe here. We'll figure this out."
She shook her head slowly, a tiny movement that seemed to take all of her remaining energy. "No. I can feel it. It's… fast." Her eyes flickered toward the sleeping form of her daughter. Her grip on Quinn's hand tightened. "Promise me," she said, her voice dropping, filled with a desperate urgency that cut through his denial. "Promise me you'll protect her. Get her out of this. Don't let her… don't let her see me…"
Her voice broke on the last words.
Quinn felt the promise like a physical weight settling onto his soul. It was the same promise he had failed to keep for Mark. He saw his brother-in-law's face, heard his last shouted words. Now his sister was asking for the same thing. It was her last will and testament, delivered in a cold, dark basement.
He couldn't speak. He could only nod, his vision blurring with tears he refused to let fall. He was a Marine. He was trained for this, for loss, for moving forward. But this was his sister. The stoicism he had learned felt like a thin, useless shield against this kind of pain.
"Promise me, Quinn," she insisted, her eyes boring into his. "Say it."
He swallowed hard, forcing the words past the rock in his throat. "I promise, Sarah," he choked out. "I promise. I'll protect her with my life."
A small measure of peace seemed to settle on her face. The tension in her grip loosened slightly. It was enough. The promise had been made.
Her head turned on the concrete floor, a slow, deliberate movement toward Lily. She wanted to see her daughter one last time. A faint, sad smile touched her lips.
"Lily…" she breathed. "My baby… Mommy loves…"
Her voice trailed off into a weak sigh. Her strength failed her. The words hung unfinished in the dark, silent air. She didn't have enough left for a full goodbye.
Quinn watched as the light, the brief and painful clarity, faded from her eyes. The fever, which had momentarily receded, came rushing back in to claim her. Her eyes went blank, staring up at the dark ceiling joists.
Her body began to shudder.
At first, it was just a tremor. Then her back arched violently, lifting her off the concrete floor. A low moan escaped her lips, but it wasn't her voice. It was a guttural sound, rattling deep in her chest, the sound of something else waking up inside her.
Quinn still held her hand, frozen in horror.
Her limbs jerked, thrashing against the hard floor. Her head slammed back against the concrete with a dull, sickening thud. The convulsions were violent, unnatural. She wasn't his sister anymore. She was just a body being seized by the infection, a vessel for the horror that was consuming their world.
The terrible, rattling sound in her chest grew louder, morphing into a low growl. Her teeth were bared in a silent snarl.
The noise woke Lily.
The little girl sat up, rubbing her eyes. She saw her mother on the floor, her body jerking and twisting. She heard the awful, inhuman sounds. The sleep vanished from her face, replaced by a look of pure confusion and fear.
"Mommy?" she whispered, her voice a tiny, trembling question in the darkness.
Sarah's convulsions stopped as suddenly as they had begun. Her body went rigid. Her eyes, which had been staring at the ceiling, snapped open wide. They weren't clouded with fever anymore. They were empty. Empty of recognition, of love, of pain, of everything that had been Sarah. They were the flat, predatory eyes of the infected.
Quinn stared into those eyes and felt his sister's hand go completely limp in his. He let go as if he'd been burned. She was gone.
Lily saw the change, too. She saw her mother's empty eyes. She understood, on a primal level that needed no explanation, that something terrible and final had just happened.
The silence was broken by her cry. It started as a small whimper and grew into a heartbreaking sob that echoed in the confines of the small, dark room.
"Mommy!" she cried, her voice filled with a child's perfect, shattering grief. "What's wrong with Mommy?"
Quinn couldn't answer. He could only stare at the thing that had once been his sister, now lying perfectly still on the basement floor, and listen to the sounds of her daughter's world breaking apart. The promise he had just made was already being tested.