Time blurred in the quiet dimness of the farmhouse. Hours passed marked only by the shifting stripes of sunlight filtering through the gaps in the window boards. Martha bustled between the kitchen and the living room, checking on Sarah, changing her bandages again with practiced hands, murmuring instructions to Helen who followed her like a dutiful, silent apprentice, fetching water or clean cloths. Sarah mostly slept, her face still pale but less tight with pain, the fever seemingly held at bay by Martha's ministrations and sheer exhaustion.
George remained watchful, spending time oiling his shotgun at the kitchen table or making silent rounds, peering through carefully drilled peepholes Quinn hadn't noticed before, hidden near the edges of the boarded windows. His silence was heavy, a constant reminder that they were guests in a fortress, tolerated out of a reluctant mercy.
As evening drew in, casting deeper shadows across the room, the smell of roasting meat and baking bread began to fill the house, mingling with the scent of herbs and woodsmoke. It was a smell Quinn hadn't realized he'd missed so desperately, the aroma of normalcy, of home. His stomach clenched with a hunger that went beyond mere physical need.
Martha eventually emerged from the kitchen carrying a steaming platter. "Alright," she announced, her tone brisk but less suspicious than before. "Food's ready. Best eat while it's hot."
On the table sat a roasted chicken, browned potatoes, greens swimming in pot liquor, and thick slices of crusty bread. It looked like a feast fit for kings. Quinn helped Sarah sit up straighter on the couch, propping pillows behind her back. She looked weak, but her eyes were clearer. Helen sat down shyly at the table, her gaze fixed on the food. George took his usual seat, laying the shotgun on the floor beside his chair before picking up a carving knife.
The meal was eaten mostly in silence, but it was a different kind of silence than before. Less tense, more focused on the simple, profound pleasure of hot, real food. Quinn ate slowly, savoring every bite. He watched Helen carefully cutting her chicken, eating with a focused determination that spoke of past hunger. Sarah managed only a few bites, but the warm broth Martha ladled into a mug for her seemed to revive her spirits somewhat.
George ate methodically, still watchful, but the hard lines around his mouth seemed to soften slightly as he watched Martha fuss over Sarah, making sure she drank the broth. Quinn felt a strange sense of fragile peace settle over the room, like a thin layer of ice over deep, cold water.
After the plates were cleared – Helen surprising Quinn by quietly helping Martha gather them – they sat in the deepening twilight, the only light coming from a single oil lamp Martha lit on the table, casting flickering golden shadows. Sarah had drifted back to sleep on the couch. Helen sat curled in one of the armchairs, looking at a worn picture book Martha had produced from somewhere.
George leaned back in his chair, pulling a pipe and pouch from his pocket. He began carefully tamping tobacco into the bowl. "Place seems quiet tonight," he remarked, striking a long wooden match on the underside of the table and holding it to the pipe, puffing until the tobacco glowed. The sweet smell of pipe smoke joined the other scents in the room.
"This house," Quinn asked quietly, gesturing towards the boarded windows. "It's solid."
George nodded, puffing contentedly. "Built it myself, mostly. Forty years ago. Thick walls. Put extra timber in the frame, expecting storms off the plains. Then..." He waved his pipe vaguely. "...this happened. Added the boards. Reinforced the doors. Made the place soundproof as I could."
"Soundproof?" Quinn raised an eyebrow.
"Keep the noise in," George clarified, his eyes glinting in the lamplight. "Music, arguments, whatever. Less chance of attracting unwanted attention. Noise travels out here." He paused. "Also helps keep the noise out. Screams, moans… things you don't want to hear." He took another puff, the silence stretching for a moment. Then he seemed to shake off the grim thought. "Still works for music, though."
He pushed himself up from the table and walked over to a tall wooden cabinet in the corner. He opened it, revealing shelves stacked with preserves, tools, and, on the bottom shelf, a worn acoustic guitar case. He pulled it out, undid the latches, and lifted out an old, slightly battered six-string guitar.
He sat back down, cradling the instrument almost lovingly. He strummed a chord, soft and resonant in the quiet room. Helen looked up from her book, curious.
"Been a while," George murmured, tuning a string slightly. He began to play, a simple, fingerpicked melody, melancholic and sweet. Martha, who had been mending something by the lamplight, put down her sewing and began to hum along softly. Her voice was thin but clear, blending with the guitar notes.
They played an old folk tune Quinn didn't recognize, then another. The music filled the room, pushing back the shadows, creating a small pocket of warmth and beauty in the ruined world. It felt achingly normal.
George looked over at Sarah, who had stirred, her eyes open, watching them. "You sing, girl?" he asked, his voice gruff but not unkind.
Sarah shook her head slightly, a faint smile touching her lips. "Not much."
George just nodded and transitioned into another tune. This one Quinn recognized instantly. The familiar opening chords of John Denver's "Take Me Home, Country Roads." Martha began to sing the words softly, her voice filled with a wistful longing.
"Almost heaven, West Virginia, Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River..."
It was a song of home, of belonging, of a world that didn't exist anymore. Sarah watched them, her expression unreadable at first. But as the chorus arrived, Quinn saw her lips moving almost imperceptibly, mouthing the words.
"Country roads, take me home, to the place I belong..."
Martha looked over and smiled gently at Sarah, nodding encouragement. When the chorus came around again, Sarah hesitated for only a second, then joined in, her voice husky at first, but gaining strength.
"Country roads, take me home, to the place I belong..."
Her voice blended with Martha's, creating a surprisingly strong harmony. Quinn found himself smiling, a genuine smile that reached his eyes. Helen giggled softly from her chair. The simple act of singing together felt like a small act of defiance against the darkness outside.
When the song finished, a comfortable silence fell. Sarah looked slightly flushed, but less pale.
"Haven't sung that in years," she murmured, looking down at her hands.
"Does the heart good," Martha said softly.
Later, after George had put the guitar away and Martha declared it was time for Sarah to rest properly, Quinn looked over at Helen, who was struggling to keep her eyes open in the armchair.
"Come on," he said gently. "Time for bed."
Martha had prepared makeshift beds for them – thick quilts and pillows laid out on the floor in the corner, away from the door but close enough to the woodstove's dying warmth.
Helen rubbed her eyes. "I'm not tired," she mumbled, though a yawn immediately betrayed her.
"Right," Quinn said, suppressing a smile. "You're wide awake. Come on, trooper." He scooped her up easily – she weighed next to nothing – and carried her over to the quilts.
"I can walk!" she protested, though she made no effort to get down, instead resting her head against his shoulder.
Quinn laid her down gently on the thickest quilt and pulled another one over her. "Get some sleep, Helen."
"You're not the boss of me," she muttered drowsily, already snuggling down. From the couch, Quinn saw Sarah watching them, a faint smirk playing on her lips despite her obvious pain.
Quinn found his own spot on the quilts near Sarah's couch, close enough to hear if she needed anything. He lay down, pulling a thin blanket over himself, suddenly aware of how deeply tired he was. The house was silent now except for the soft crackle from the stove and the rhythmic breathing of the others.
"Quinn?" Sarah's voice was low, just above a whisper.
He turned his head slightly. Her eyes were open in the dimness, watching him.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks," she said softly. "Back there. At the house. And... for getting me here."
He hesitated. The simple word felt heavy with everything they'd been through. "Just survival, Sarah."
"No," she insisted quietly. "It was more than that. Thank you."
He didn't know what to say, so he just nodded in the darkness. They lay in silence for a while.
"My family," Sarah said suddenly, her voice thick with remembered pain. "They were in Miami. Husband, little boy. Went down for a visit just before... before it all went sideways. Tried to get back to them from the base. Took me weeks. By the time I got there..." She trailed off, taking a shaky breath. "Nothing left. Just the house… and memories."
Quinn listened, his own throat tightening. He thought of Anna, her face bright in the morning light. He hadn't let himself truly think about getting home, about what he might find. It was a hope too fragile to examine closely.
"I'm sorry," he said, the words feeling inadequate.
"Yeah," she whispered. "Me too." Another silence. "You?" she asked eventually. "You said you were trying to get somewhere. Someone waiting?"
He thought of the promise in his eyes when he'd kissed Anna goodbye. I will. "My wife," he said, the word tasting like ash and hope mixed together. "Anna. Back home." He didn't mention kids. Not yet. It felt like tempting fate. Talking about them would make the fear of what he might find too real.
"Hope you find her," Sarah murmured, her voice already growing heavy with sleep. "Hope she's okay."
"Me too," Quinn whispered back to the darkness.
He lay awake for a long time, listening to the quiet breathing around him, the occasional creak of the old house settling. They were safe, cocooned in this small pocket of warmth and temporary peace. He could hear George moving softly upstairs, probably checking the windows again. Outside, the empty fields stretched away under the cold starlight.
Tonight, they were safe. But the image of George's shotgun leaning against the wall, the memory of the bolts slamming home, the fear in Martha's eyes – they were stark reminders. This peace was borrowed, fragile. And morning always came.