It was hunger that kept him moving through the throngs of decay that plagued the city; not the kind of hunger that came from not eating- he had survived worse in foreign lands surrounded by soldiers. No, this hunger stemmed from before the dead walked the streets, the main reason for Quincyâs chest to rise, for his heart to beat, for there to be another step taken was for his family. The one he had been taken from, the one he fought to get back to.
 He was exhausted, the pack on his back had become apart of him, attached at all times whether heavy or light he didnât unstrap it just the same, at this point it was lighter than it had been in awhile. He left a trail of dead bodies in his wake, sometimes they were just reanimated corpses before, but most times they were living. The end of times had sent the decent into hiding, leaving the worst to the streets and open spaces. He covered himself in their rot, regardless of their creed before death, they served him the same in their real deaths: his survival. He spent the day in a basement of an old chinese food restaurant, the contents of which had been thoroughly raided save for a few packets of soy sauce which he tucked away into one of the many pockets of his pack. He slept. Then as the sun departed from their part of the sky, Quincy rose, ate, and went back to trekking his way through the city. Cars were dangerous, something he had learned upon entering the city and motorcycles attracted more of them with their noise, so he had found a bicycle. The frame of it bent beneath his weight when he first got on it, the balance a little wobbly as he first kicked off, but soon he was moving quickly down familiar roads.
Quincyâs wrists were wrapped in cloth that used to be orange but now was a dingy, rusty brown, the skin beneath was scabbed over and eventually they would leave scars. He hoped his siblings wouldnât mind. He had memorized the addresses of their new homes, knew every route to get to them, including the unmarked woods where no roads were known. He would find his way through to them, but when he arrived at Rooney and Beanieâs place he knew immediately they werenât there. He patrolled the circumference of the house, climbing over the side gate which was wedged shut and barricaded. The yard was overgrown with weeds and the back sliding door had been kicked through, glass crunching beneath his feet. He covered his mouth and nose at the stench that permeated as he passed by the living room. Quincy only glanced at the bodies there, knowing by sight that they didnât belong to anyone he cared about. He ran up the steps.Â
Not for the first time he was thankful (in the slightest of ways) to the one set of foster parents Rooney and Beanie had that sent him a letter in return, telling him where they were taken. He still had it, tucked into the inner pocket of his jumpsuit that he had stitched himself, along with a picture of all the siblings together beforeâŠeverything. The pictureâs edges had softened but he could still feel the weight of its presence against his chest. The top of the landing revealed several doors and he tried each one carefully, knocking and listening for any shuffling.
He knew they werenât there. There was no chance in hell that Rooney would keep herself and Beanie in this place and that was even before the scene in the living room. He made it to what he assumed was Rooneyâs room, the door creaking open to reveal it mostly in tact. The drawers were pulled out, clothes rifled through, the mattress was upturned, but nothing was unnecessarily broken. He took a step forward, glanced over the book case and then moved to the closet but a creak beneath his foot gave him pause. A loose floor board? He brushed away clothes with his foot and then knelt, examining the floor. Ah. A seam and the signs of wear on one edge of the wooden plank, it was easy to lift and the tin box revealed contained letters addressed to him. He closed them up in tin again, gritting his teeth. God damn it. He shoved the tin box into his pack, a sob wracking him as he broke just a little bit more. He shoved it down, the emotions, the wave of defeat that threatened to spill over if he showed any more weaknesses. He controlled his breathing and then he saw the clothes around him. Theyâd grown so much. He picked up a blouse and held it up and then he was making a pile to shove into his pack. Shirts, pants, socks, underwear, and a sweater for each of them rolled and shoved into the pack as tight as he could get it. The extra weight grounded him, added hope and then he was leaving. He would check the old home they used to live in as a last resort. Beanie and Rooney lived closest to where he was jailed, but after he found them, he would find the others.Â
Their family home was imposing to him, its walls towering in his memories as it housed his best and worst memories. He used the front entrance this time, the door slightly unhinged and ajar, he had to lift it and move it aside but he saw where someone had shoved into it, leaving scrape marks against the wood floors of the entry way. The moon was brightest tonight but he still pulled his flashlight as he moved into the house. Again, his search had come to a head with no results, the rooms devoid of signs of his family. Not one sibling to be seen, not one trace of them at all, not even the pictures on the walls were of anyone he recognized. He traced the markings that were etched into a door jamb, not easily painted over or forgotten, took a deep, steadying breath when his fingers caught the last marking that barely reached his chest. He clenched his fist and carried onward and upward, down the hall, stopping at each door as memories played out. He let himself get lost in them, just this once. He clenched his eyes shut and images hazy and sweet materialized when he opened them. He saw Wesley in front of his door, silhouetted in the moonlight, he had a bat, he was asking Quincy something but it escaped him as Rooney crawled between his legs, Riley in hot pursuit with a bath towel. Their ghosts faded as he continued forward and the house became emptyâ was always empty.
He couldnât leave the house fast enough. He ran down the sidewalk that split through their front yard, wrestling the bike out from where heâd hidden it in a bush. Thatâs when he heard them , his head swiveling to the sound. He saw them as dark figures, blending together to become amorphous run of shifting shades on the horizon. Quincy wasted no time riding away from the undead.
He was hiding in a fenced off backyard when he heard the screaming and he was on the street running towards it before he remembered to check for the undead. He lucked out and made it to the front door which was left unlocked and it creaked open unnoticed by the men inside. A knife was in Quincyâs hand and the sight before him made everything go quiet in his head, a ringing starting up in his ears.
 Two of the men were dispatched, inch deep cuts in their throats as they hit the floor, gasping and gurgling, fingers curling into their open wounds. He kicked one of them away from his sisters and sent him crashing to the floor after the man tripped on his two friends dying on the floor. Then he grabbed the one covering Rooneyâs body with his own by the collar and with a force he yanked him back. âYouâre gonna fuckinâ regret this.â The man who he had left untouched started running for the door and Quincy threw his knife at him where it embedded into his back with a sickening thud. He looked down at the man he was straddling and smiled, his eyes filling with malice. âH-hey m-man weââ Crack. Quincyâs hands were wrapped tight around the manâs throat, choking whatever he was going to say next off and he lifted him up by his neck and slammed him back down. Fingers pried at his then at his hands and up his arms, but Quincy only lifted the manâs head and slammed it down again and again and again until there was no movement. Until a mess of gore and bone leaked out onto the floor. He stood moving to the entrance to pull the knife from the man whoâd tried escapingâs back. He stabbed that man in the head and did the same to the other two.Â
âŠ.four? ah. one had escaped.Â
âGoodnight nobody. Goodnight mush. And goodnight to the old lady whispering âhushâ â She said, staring down at Beanie. They were at one of their old foster homes. Beanie was five and Rooney was just about to turn twelve. Beanie couldnât fall asleep at night unless Rooney read her a bedtime story. âGoodnight Moonâ was her favorite. âGoodnight stars. Goodnight air. Good night noises everywhere.â As she finished speaking the last words, she looked down to see Beanie snoozing away. Relieved she pushed back gently, moving to the other side of the mattress. Rooney flipped over, her back hitting the top of the mattress. The second her should grazed it, though, her eyes snapped open. She wasnât actually in their old foster, but in the old house that her and Beanie had made their home during this mess.
Everything hurt. Her head, her stomach, her arms- all of it. It felt like a heavy boulder had been placed upon each, like something was smothering her. She tried to make sense of it. Had what happened at the other house been a horrible nightmare? Too quickly she looked on her other side, checking for Beanie. The indentation from her head was still on her pillow was there, but Beanie was gone. âBeanie?â The name came out much more softly than sheâd intended, but her she quietly found that her throat was sore too. Rooney looked to the bed across from theirs and saw that the bed, which was usually empty, was not. Even with the sheet covering her little sisterâs body, she knew. âNo,â She shook her head, her chest starting to heave as tears started to spill from her eyes. And once she started crying, she couldnât stop. Heavy crying- the kind that usually ended in hyperventilation.Â
