Morning sunlight, again filtered through the cracks in the boarded windows, painted stripes across the scrubbed wooden floor. The smell of coffee and frying bacon hung thick and comforting in the air, overlaying the lingering scents of woodsmoke and Martha's herbal remedies. Quinn sat at the table, nursing a mug of strong, bitter coffee. Across from him, George methodically worked his way through a plate of eggs and bacon, though his eyes kept flicking towards the windows, his calm less convincing than the previous evening.
Sarah was propped up on the couch again, looking marginally better. The intense pallor had faded slightly, replaced by a weary color. Martha had insisted she eat something, and she was slowly picking at a piece of toast. Helen sat beside Quinn at the table, quietly eating a bowl of oatmeal, her earlier fear seemingly replaced by a cautious curiosity about their hosts. The fragile peace held, thin and brittle as ice.
"Slept alright?" Martha asked Quinn as she refilled his coffee mug. Her face looked drawn this morning, the lines of worry etched deeper.
"Best I have in a while," Quinn admitted, and it was true. Despite the underlying tension, the relative safety and warmth had allowed exhaustion to claim him fully for a few hours.
George grunted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Good. Best be ready for anything, though. Can't count on quiet lasting." His gaze drifted back to the window boards.
As if summoned by his words, a sound ripped through the quiet morning air.
CRACK!
Sharp, loud, unmistakable. A gunshot. Close. Outside.
Everyone froze. Helen dropped her spoon with a clatter. Sarah's head snapped up, eyes wide with alarm. George was instantly on his feet, grabbing the shotgun from beside his chair, his face paling under his tan. Martha let out a small, choked gasp, her hand flying to her mouth, eyes filled with stark terror. They exchanged a look – a flash of shared dread, of something horrible anticipated and now arrived.
"They're here," George breathed, his voice tight. "He came back."
"Who?" Quinn asked sharply, already pushing his chair back.
"No time!" Martha hissed, grabbing Helen's arm. "Quick! The cellar! All of you!"
She practically dragged Helen towards a rough woven rug in the center of the room. George kicked the edge of the rug aside, revealing a heavy wooden trapdoor flush with the floorboards, fitted with a recessed metal ring. He yanked the ring, pulling the heavy door open, revealing dark, narrow steps leading down into blackness.
"Get in! Now!" George urged, waving the shotgun towards the opening, his eyes darting frantically towards the front door, listening.
Sounds drifted from outside now – the crunch of boots on gravel, muffled voices, the jingle of metal. More than one person.
Quinn helped Sarah up. She moved stiffly, pain flashing across her face, but adrenaline lent her speed. She half-limped, half-hopped towards the cellar steps. Quinn scooped up their backpacks and the duffle bag of weapons, shoving them towards the opening. Helen scrambled down the steps without needing to be told, disappearing into the darkness. Sarah followed carefully, wincing with each step.
"Move it!" George hissed at Quinn, who was already lowering the bags down before swinging his legs over the edge.
"What about you?" Quinn asked, pausing on the top step.
"We handle this," Martha said grimly, already pulling the rug back towards the trapdoor. "They see you, we're all dead. Stay down. Stay quiet. No matter what you hear."
George slammed the trapdoor shut above Quinn's head, plunging the cellar into near-total darkness. The rug muffled the sounds from above, but didn't block them entirely. Quinn landed softly on the dirt floor at the bottom of the steps. The air was cool and damp, smelling of earth and stored vegetables.
He fumbled for the flashlight Sarah had taken from the office building, finding it in the side pocket of the duffle bag. He clicked it on, the beam cutting through the blackness. Helen was huddled at the bottom of the steps, eyes huge in the sudden light. Sarah leaned against the packed-earth wall, breathing heavily, hand pressed against her bandaged thigh. The cellar was small, low-ceilinged, lined with rough shelves holding jars of preserves, sacks of potatoes and onions, and tools. It felt cramped, claustrophobic. A tomb.
Heavy footsteps pounded on the floorboards directly above them. Then, the sound of the heavy front door bolts being drawn back, followed by the door creaking open. Muffled voices carried down to them.
"...about time, Georgie-boy," a new voice drawled. It was slow, carrying an edge of mocking amusement, but underscored with steel. "Thought maybe you forgot who pays the bills around here."
"Richter," George's voice answered, sounding strained, trying for calm. "Wasn't expectin' you so soon."
"Change of plans," the drawling voice – Richter – replied. Boots scraped on the floorboards above. More men entering the house. Quinn counted at least six or seven distinct sets of footsteps moving around. "Heard some commotion out this way last night. Figured I'd come see if my favorite farmers were alright. Wouldn't want anything to happen to my investment."
A chair scraped above. Someone sitting down heavily at the table.
"We're fine, Richter," Martha's voice, tight with forced composure. "Just the wind."
Richter chuckled, a dry, unpleasant sound. "The wind? Sounded more like… welcoming party." Silence. Then, Richter's voice, closer to the trapdoor now, maybe pacing. "Smells like company, Martha. Got that new-fear smell in here."
Quinn held his breath, heart pounding against his ribs. He switched off the flashlight, plunging them back into darkness. He could feel Helen trembling beside him. He put a steadying hand on her shoulder.
"Just us," George insisted. "Always just us."
"That so?" Richter sounded unconvinced. "Funny. 'Cause my boys said they saw tire tracks turnin' off the main road onto your track this morning. Fresh ones. Now, who would be visitin' way out here?"
Silence stretched, thick with tension. Quinn strained to hear, imagining George and Martha trying desperately to keep their faces blank.
"Maybe someone got lost," Martha offered weakly.
"Maybe," Richter drawled again. "Or maybe you been holdin' out on ol' Richter. Got some new friends? Share the wealth, maybe?" More footsteps moving around above. Someone opening cupboards. "Beer's low, Georgie. And the pantry's lookin' mighty thin."
Quinn could almost feel the menace radiating down through the floorboards. He instinctively reached for the K-Bar at his belt, his fingers tightening around the worn leather handle. Sarah shifted beside him, her breathing shallow.
"Times are hard, Richter," George said, his voice low.
"Times are hard for everyone," Richter snapped back, the amusement gone, replaced by cold command. "Which brings me to our arrangement. Payment was due three days ago. Poultry. Grain. Didn't see hide nor hair of it."
"We... we had some trouble," George stammered. "Foxes got into the chickens. Weevils in the grain..."
"Excuses!" Richter's voice cracked like a whip. "We had a deal, George! You supply me, I let you keep breathin' in this nice little hole you dug for yourselves. You break the deal…" He let the threat hang.
"We'll get it!" Martha pleaded. "Just need a little more time!"
"Time's up," Richter said flatly. There was a heavy thud, like someone being shoved or falling. A small cry from Martha. Quinn tensed, fighting the urge to burst up through the trapdoor. Stay quiet, Martha had said. No matter what.
"Now," Richter continued, his voice regaining its drawl, but colder now. "Since you failed to meet the terms, the price just went up. Doubled. I want four head of cattle, fat ones, and ten sacks of your best grain. Loaded up and ready by sundown tomorrow."
"Four cattle?" George gasped. "Richter, we only got six left! That'll ruin us!"
"Shoulda thought of that before you missed your payment," Richter retorted coolly. "Sundown tomorrow. Or Martha and I are gonna have a real long, real unpleasant talk down at my place."
The implication was crystal clear. Quinn felt a cold rage build within him. This Richter, whoever he was, ruled through fear and extortion. He pictured the man – cowboy hat casting his face in shadow, maybe a duster coat, boots with jingling spurs, a smug, cruel smile. A petty tyrant in a fallen world.
"You can't!" Martha sobbed.
"Oh, I can," Richter said softly, dangerously. "And I will." Footsteps moved towards the front door again. "Boys! Keep an eye on Georgie here. Make sure he doesn't get any stupid ideas about goin' anywhere. The rest of you, come with me. We're takin' the insurance policy now."
More footsteps moving towards the door. George's choked cry of protest. Martha's desperate sobbing. Then the sound of the front door opening and closing. Boots fading away outside.
But not all of them.
Heavy footsteps remained inside the house above. A chair scraped again. A bottle clinked. Someone laughed coarsely.
Down in the darkness of the cellar, Quinn gripped his knife, listening to the sounds of Richter's men settling in directly above them. They were trapped, helpless, while the people who had sheltered them faced ruin and terror. Richter was gone, with Martha, but his menace remained, embodied by the armed thugs now occupying the farmhouse.
Sundown tomorrow. The deadline hung in the silence like a death sentence.