The stench hit him before the pain did.
Not the sharp, clean burn of antiseptic or gunpowder. Not even the iron-tang of blood—though that was there too, lurking underneath. No, this was worse. Rotten. Like the world had cracked open and let its guts spill out onto the pavement.
Burnt flesh. Melted plastic. Gasoline and something sweet beneath it all, like spoiled fruit left too long in the sun.
Quinn's eyes flew open.
Above him, the sky wasn't sky at all—just smoke, thick and greasy, blotting out the sun. His body screamed when he moved. Ribs. Spine. Jaw wired shut with dried blood. He rolled onto his side, and glass bit into his palm like teeth.
What the hell happened?
No answer. Just wreckage.
A bus curled onto its side, belly split open. Humvees crushed into abstract sculptures of war. And bodies—so many bodies—strewn across the road like discarded toys. Some still buckled into seats. Others flung halfway through windshields, limbs bent all wrong.
No groans. No last breaths. Just silence.
His fingers found the K-Bar strapped to his thigh. Cold comfort.
Then—
A voice.
Small. Fragile. A child's whimper cutting through the stillness.
"Mommy…?"
Quinn froze.
A kid? Here?
His boots crunched over glass as he moved, heart hammering against his ribs. Logic said stop. Instinct said faster.
"Mommy…? Where are you…?"
The voice led him to a girl. Six, maybe. Barefoot in a nightgown, standing too still near a guardrail. Her lips moved, whispering the same word on loop.
"Mommy… Mommy…"
Quinn crouched, slow. "Hey," he rasped. "You hurt?"
No reaction. Just that whisper.
Then her head snapped up.
Wrong.
Her eyes were milk-white, pupils swallowed whole. Blood slicked her chin, flecked with scraps of meat. Her mouth unhinged—too wide, too many teeth—and she lunged.
Quinn reacted before he could think. The K-Bar punched into her side, grating against bone. She shrieked, a sound like nails on steel, and he yanked the blade free just as shapes surged from the wreckage behind her.
Not human. Not anymore.
Skin stretched too tight over jutting joints. Fingers curled into claws. And the smell—god, the smell—like open graves and wet rot.
One leapt.
Quinn ran.
He vaulted over twisted metal, boots skidding on oil-slick pavement. Something scrambled across a van roof, hissing. He ducked, rolled beneath a gutted truck, and wedged himself into the stinking dark, knife clutched white-knuckled.
Silence. Then—
Sniffing.
Hot breath fogged the ground near his ankle. A drop of saliva hit the dirt with a hiss.
Quinn didn't breathe.
A clang echoed down the road. The thing stiffened. Vanished.
But the girl's voice lingered, haunting the smoke.
"Mommy… Mommy…"
Bait. She'd been bait.
When he finally crawled out, his hands shook. Not from fear—from the knowing. Whatever this was, it wasn't just death. It was hunting.
Then he saw the bag.
Pink. Faded unicorns. A name scrawled on the zipper charm:
HELEN McLEAN
The girl's? Maybe. Or just another piece of a world that didn't exist anymore.
Quinn stood, wiping blood off the K-Bar onto his thigh.
This road led nowhere good.
And the things waiting down it?
They weren't finished with him yet.