Quinn half-carried, half-dragged Sarah over the threshold into the dim interior of the farmhouse. Helen slipped in behind them like a shadow, her eyes wide, scanning the room. The heavy door slammed shut with a thud that echoed finality, and the bolts slid home with loud, metallic rasps. Plunged into the relative darkness after the bright morning sun, Quinn blinked, his eyes adjusting slowly.
The room was a combined living and dining area. Simple, sturdy furniture – a worn couch, a couple of armchairs draped with quilts, a large wooden dining table. Everything was scrupulously clean but sparsely furnished. The air smelled faintly of woodsmoke, soap, and something herbal. Heavy planks were bolted across the inside of the windows, casting striped shadows across the floorboards. This wasn't just a home; it was a bunker built from necessity.
The man, George, emerged fully from the shadows near the staircase. He was leaner than his voice suggested, wiry, with sharp eyes under bushy grey eyebrows. He held the double-barreled shotgun loosely but competently, the muzzle never straying far from Quinn's general direction. He didn't look welcoming, just wary.
"Put her on the couch," the woman, Martha, commanded, setting the iron skillet down on the table with a clang. She bustled towards a cupboard, already pulling out clean-looking rags, a bottle of clear liquid, and a metal basin. Her movements were quick, efficient, wasting no motion.
Quinn carefully lowered Sarah onto the worn floral-patterned couch. Sarah gasped, her face tight with pain, sweat plastering strands of dark hair to her forehead. Helen hovered uncertainly near the door, looking small and lost.
"George, get some water boiling," Martha ordered without looking back. "And keep an eye on our guests."
George grunted an affirmative, glanced sharply at Quinn and Helen, then disappeared through a doorway that likely led to the kitchen, the shotgun still held ready. Quinn heard the clatter of a kettle, the scrape of a stove lid.
Martha knelt beside Sarah, her expression all business now. "Alright, girl. Let's see the damage." Her hands, though old and wrinkled, were surprisingly steady as she carefully began to cut away the blood-stiffened denim around Sarah's thigh with a pair of sharp scissors that seemed to appear from a pocket in her apron. Sarah clenched her teeth, her knuckles white where she gripped the armrest.
Quinn watched, feeling useless. "Is there anything I can do?"
Martha glanced up at him, her eyes sharp. "Keep the little one calm. And stay outta my light." She bent back to her work, probing the edges of the wound gently. It was ugly – torn flesh, dark blood still oozing, the skin around it an angry red. "Bullet went clean through, looks like. Lucky. Hit an artery, you'd have bled out before you got here. But it's dirty. Gonna need cleaning." She looked at Sarah. "This will hurt."
Sarah just nodded grimly, bracing herself.
George returned with the steaming kettle and the basin. Martha poured the boiling water over a stack of clean rags in the basin, then added a splash of the clear liquid from the bottle – it smelled sharp, like rubbing alcohol. She picked up one of the steaming cloths with tongs, waited a moment for it to cool slightly, then pressed it firmly against the wound.
Sarah arched her back off the couch with a choked cry, sweat popping out on her upper lip. Martha didn't flinch, holding the hot compress steady. "Got to draw the poison out," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. "Keep the fever down."
Quinn turned away slightly, forcing himself to look around the room again, giving Sarah some privacy in her pain. He noticed Helen watching Martha's hands with intense focus. On impulse, Quinn caught Helen's eye and gave her a small, reassuring nod. He walked over to where their backpacks lay near the door. He unzipped his, pulling out two bottles of water and a handful of unopened energy bars.
George reappeared in the kitchen doorway, shotgun resting in the crook of his arm. He watched Quinn's movements with narrow-eyed suspicion.
Quinn held up the items. "Look," he said, keeping his voice low. "We appreciate this. More than you know. Take these. Payment, goodwill, whatever you want to call it."
George considered the offering, his eyes flicking from the sealed water bottles to Quinn's face, then back to Martha working on Sarah. He hesitated, then gave a curt nod. "Leave 'em on the table." He jerked his head towards the kitchen. "Come here. Give Martha room to work."
Quinn placed the items on the heavy dining table, then followed George into the kitchen. It was as clean and sparsely functional as the living room. A wood-burning cookstove dominated one wall, radiating a gentle warmth. George gestured towards a pair of wooden stools at a small counter.
"Sit," he said. It wasn't quite an invitation. He leaned the shotgun against the wall within easy reach, then pulled out a stoneware jug and two tin cups from a cupboard. He poured a measure of amber liquid into each cup. It smelled potent, like corn and maybe apples. Homemade.
He pushed one cup towards Quinn. "Drink."
Quinn took the cup. He wasn't much of a drinker, especially not now, but refusing seemed like a bad idea. He took a small sip. It burned all the way down, sharp and raw, but warming. George drained half his cup in one gulp, watching Quinn over the rim.
"Where'd you come from?" George asked abruptly. "The city?"
Quinn nodded. "Yeah. Just got out this morning."
"See much action back there?"
Quinn thought of the highway, the grocery store, the rooftop escape, the things pouring through the streets. "Enough."
George nodded slowly, swirling the liquid in his cup. "Figured. Been quiet out here, mostly. Least, it was." He took another drink. "Don't get many folks comin' this way. Most didn't make it past the suburbs when it all went bad. Too many... things... concentrated there."
"We noticed," Quinn said. "It's emptier out here."
"Fewer people to start with," George confirmed. "Most scattered when the SIF warnings came. Tried to get away. Didn't work out for 'em, mostly. Found a few cars on the back roads... occupants hadn't gotten far before they turned." He shuddered slightly. "We stay put. Keep quiet. Mind our own."
His eyes fixed on Quinn again. "That girl shoot your friend?"
Quinn hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Long story. She was scared. We startled her."
George grunted. "World makes people do ugly things now. Especially kids. Seen it." He finished his drink and poured another splash into his cup. "You military?" He eyed Quinn's build, his bearing.
"Used to be," Quinn admitted. "Marines."
George absorbed that, chewing on his lip. "Might be useful. If you stick around." He paused, letting the implication hang. "Might be trouble, too."
"We don't plan on sticking around," Quinn said quickly. "Soon as Sarah can travel, we'll be on our way. We don't want to impose."
"Good," George said bluntly. "Less attention we draw, the better. Folks 'round here... the ones left... ain't friendly. Take what they want." He glanced towards the boarded-up kitchen window. "Got to be careful who sees you."
In the other room, Sarah cried out again as Martha applied another compress. Helen, Quinn noticed, had crept closer and was now standing near Martha's side, watching intently. Martha murmured something, and Helen nodded, then scurried over to a pump handle at the sink, filling a clean bowl with water. She carried it carefully back to Martha. A small crack in the ice.
George followed Quinn's gaze. "Martha's good," he said quietly. "Delivered half the babies in the county back when there was a county. Assisted in surgeries sometimes when the doc needed an extra pair of hands. Knows wounds."
Quinn nodded, feeling a surge of gratitude towards the stern, capable woman.
Martha's voice carried from the other room, calmer now. "Alright. Cleaned best I can. Packed it with dock weed poultice. Keep the swelling down. Now for the binding."
Quinn pushed his stool back. "I should check on them."
George didn't object, just watched him go, his expression unreadable. Quinn walked back into the living room. Martha was carefully wrapping Sarah's thigh with clean strips of cloth, creating a tight, supportive bandage. Sarah looked exhausted, pale as bleached bone, but her breathing seemed a little easier. Helen stood nearby, holding the bowl, looking less terrified, more focused.
"She gonna be okay?" Quinn asked Martha quietly.
Martha tied off the bandage with a firm knot. "Depends. Stopped the bleeding. Cleaned it best I could without proper supplies. Poultice might help fight infection, might not. Need to keep her warm, hydrated. Rest. Lots of rest." She looked up at Quinn, her eyes tired but direct. "She's young, strong. But a bad fever could still take her. Next twenty-four hours will tell."
She stood up slowly, wiping her hands on her apron. "George," she called. "Help me get some broth heated up. All of 'em look like they ain't eaten proper in days."
George appeared, picked up the basin of bloody rags and soiled water without a word, and took it towards the kitchen. Martha looked from Quinn to Helen, then to Sarah lying pale on the couch. A fragile truce seemed to settle over the room. The immediate crisis was over. They were inside, sheltered, Sarah was treated.
But the tension hadn't disappeared. It hummed beneath the surface, in George's watchful silence, in the bolted planks across the windows, in the knowledge of whatever dangers lurked outside that made this elderly couple so fiercely protective and afraid.
George reappeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping his hands on a rag. He caught Quinn's eye and gave a slight nod towards the boarded front window.
"Daylight's burning," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "Sun's getting high. Best hope nobody else saw your dust trail leading them right to our door."
The implied threat hung heavy in the quiet room. They were safe for the moment, but they had brought potential danger right onto this fragile doorstep. And the day was far from over.