"Sarah, get the kids!" Quinn yelled, his voice raw with terror and adrenaline. "We're getting out! We're getting out now!"
He did not wait for a reply. He charged, swinging the iron poker in a wide, desperate arc that was fueled by pure instinct. The heavy iron connected with the side of the teenage boy's head with a sickening crack. The creature dropped without a sound, collapsing in a heap that blocked the narrow hallway. But as one fell, another appeared. The woman in the pink jogging suit was on him, scrambling over the fallen body, her movements eerily silent and fast. Her face was a blank slate of inhuman hunger.
Quinn kicked out with a steel-toed boot, a remnant of a past life, sending her stumbling back. He used the precious second to glance over his shoulder. More were coming. One was emerging from the den, and he could hear the distinct sound of another one clawing its way over the dining table in the kitchen. The house was a deathtrap. Every second they stayed, their chances of survival plummeted toward zero.
He saw a flicker of a path, a desperate, impossible plan born of a soldier's tactical mind. Through the living room, to the connecting door to the garage. They could get in the car. It was their only chance.
"The garage!" he shouted, pointing with the bloody end of the poker. "We have to get to the garage!"
Sarah, her face a mask of white terror, fumbled with the closet door under the stairs, pulling a crying Lily and a shell-shocked Tom into the chaotic hallway. The children's fear was a physical presence in the air. "Mark!" she screamed toward the kitchen. "Mark, we have to go!"
Mark appeared in the kitchen doorway. He was clutching his bleeding arm, the fabric of his sleeve soaked in dark blood. His face was pale. He saw Sarah and the kids huddled by the stairs. He saw Quinn, holding one creature at bay while another closed in from the side. He saw the open doorways, dark maws spilling more monsters into their home. He saw the impossible odds.
And in that moment of terrible clarity, Mark made a choice. It was not the choice of a soldier, but of a father and a husband looking at the only thing in the world that mattered. His eyes met Quinn's for a fraction of a second, and in them, Quinn saw not fear, but a grim, heartbreaking resolution.
Mark ran, but not toward his family. He ran directly at Quinn.
He shoved his brother-in-law—hard—with both hands, propelling him back towards Sarah and the children. Quinn stumbled, catching himself before he fell, turning in confusion. "Mark, what are you doing?"
Mark did not answer. He turned and snatched the aluminum baseball bat from the floor where Quinn had dropped it earlier. He hefted it, his knuckles white. He looked at the main group of infected, the three now converging in the living room, blocking the direct path to the garage door.
"Get them out of here, Quinn," Mark said, his voice surprisingly steady. It was not a request. It was an order.
"No! We can fight them together!" Quinn protested, taking a step forward. This went against every instinct he had. You never leave a man behind.
Mark took a deep breath and let out a raw, desperate roar. It was not a battle cry; it was the sound of a man trying to make himself bigger than his fear. He charged directly at the creatures.
"GO!" he screamed over his shoulder, swinging the bat in a clean, powerful arc he must have learned in high school.
The first swing connected with the woman in pink, the crack of the bat against her skull echoing in the room. She went down hard. The second swing caught another one—a man Quinn did not recognize—in the chest, stunning it for a second and sending it stumbling back. For one glorious, impossible moment, Mark had created a path.
Quinn hesitated, his entire being screaming at him to fight alongside Mark. To not abandon him.
Mark saw the hesitation. He turned his head, his face a mess of sweat and terror, but his eyes were clear and focused. "She needs you! The kids need you! Save my family, Quinn! PROMISE ME!"
The creatures were on him. One grabbed his uninjured arm, sinking its teeth into his shoulder. Mark screamed, a sound of pure agony that cut through the chaos, but he did not stop swinging. He twisted, breaking the hold, and slammed the bat into another creature's leg. He was a force of pure, desperate will, a cornered animal protecting his young.
That scream, that promise, broke Quinn's paralysis. It was the cost. It was the only way. He had to honor the sacrifice.
"MAAAARK!" Sarah's shriek was a sound of pure anguish. She tried to run towards her husband, to run into the fray.
Quinn grabbed her, his arm locking around her waist like a band of steel. He pulled her back, away from the fight, away from the man she loved.
"No! Let me go! Mark!" she sobbed, fighting him, her fists beating uselessly against his back and shoulders.
"I'm sorry, Sarah, I'm so sorry," Quinn grunted, dragging her and the terrified children toward the garage door. Lily was wailing, a high, thin sound of pure terror, and Tom was stumbling along, his eyes wide and locked on the horrible scene unfolding in the living room.
Quinn risked one last glance back. It was the last time he would ever see Mark alive. He was no longer standing. He was on his knees, swarmed by three, then four of them. The bat was gone. They were tearing at him, their movements frantic and greedy. He was lost beneath a pile of thrashing limbs and snapping teeth. He went down fighting, a silent, brutal ballet of violence that lasted only a few seconds. Then, the writhing mass of bodies went still, focused on their task.
The sight broke something inside Quinn. A cold, black despair washed over him, but he could not stop. He could not grieve. He had made a promise.
He fumbled with the lock on the garage door, his hands shaking so badly he could barely turn the deadbolt. Sarah had stopped fighting him, her body gone limp with shock and grief. He finally got the door open and shoved them all inside, into the dark, dusty air of the garage that smelled of gasoline and cut grass. He slammed the door shut just as the creatures in the living room, their first meal finished, turned their attention toward them. Heavy, frantic hands began to pound on the other side of the door.
Quinn did not waste a second. He hit the button for the main garage door on the wall. The motor whirred to life, a horribly loud sound in the charged silence. The heavy door began to groan its way upward, revealing the gray, chaotic world outside.
He bundled Sarah and the kids into the backseat of their minivan. Sarah was unresponsive, staring into nothing, whispering Mark's name over and over again like a prayer. Lily and Tom were huddled together on the floor of the vehicle, crying silently, their small faces streaked with tears and dirt.
Quinn jumped into the driver's seat, jamming the key into the ignition. The engine turned over with a roar. He slammed the van into reverse, not even waiting for the garage door to fully open. The top of the van scraped against the rising door with a loud screech of metal on metal. He stomped on the gas. The tires squealed on the concrete of the driveway, and the van shot backward into the street.
He risked a look at the house, their home, now a tomb. The front door was open. More of them were spilling out onto the lawn, drawn by the sound of the engine.
Every foot he put between them and the house felt like a failure. Every second of their escape had been bought and paid for with the life of a good man. A man who had only wanted to fill the bathtubs with water and go out for donuts. A man Quinn had promised he would save.
And as he sped away from the house on the quiet suburban street, leaving Mark behind, the weight of that broken promise felt heavier than any grief he had ever known.