The Last Marine

The auto body shop was a pocket of silence in a dead world. The heavy, corrugated steel door was a solid barrier against the horrors outside, but it did little to block out the ghosts within. The air was cold, smelling of grease and stale gasoline. In the beam of Hex’s flashlight, dust motes danced like tiny, restless spirits.

Exhaustion, held at bay for hours by adrenaline and fear, crashed down on them like a physical blow. Ben and Clara, two of the surviving fighters from the clinic, collapsed against a wall, their bodies finally surrendering to the trauma. The older man, who they learned was named George, simply sat on an overturned bucket, his gaze fixed on nothing, his face a stony mask of grief.

Lena, ever the doctor, pushed past her own weariness. She moved through the small group, her hands quick and efficient as she tended to the injuries sustained during the breakout. She stitched a deep gash on Ben’s arm, her movements precise even in the dim light. She checked on Clara, who had a mild concussion from being knocked against the van door. She moved with a purpose that was both inspiring and heartbreaking. It was the only way she knew how to cope.

"Quinn, you’re next," she said, her voice leaving no room for argument. She gestured to the raw, angry-looking scrape along his jaw where an infected’s fingernails had raked him. He sat down without a word, allowing her to clean and dress the wound. Her touch was professional, impersonal, but as she worked, their eyes met for a moment. In that shared glance, an entire conversation passed between them—gratitude, grief, and the grim understanding of their shared burden.

Quinn and Hex established a watch schedule. There was no argument. It was an unspoken, professional courtesy. Hex took the first watch, positioning himself near a small, grimy window that looked out onto the alley. Quinn tried to rest, but sleep was a distant country he could not reach. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the faces of the fallen—Maria, David, the young man Alex who had sacrificed himself. The weight of their deaths was a physical pressure in his chest.

Lily was awake. She was not crying. She was sitting on a blanket in the back of the riot van, the door left open to the garage. She had her small pad of paper and her crayons, the ones she had found at the house where they had first rested. She was drawing.

Lena, finished with her rounds, went to sit with her. "What are you drawing, sweetie?" she asked softly.

Lily did not look up. She held the drawing out for Lena to see. It was not the happy family portrait she had drawn before. This picture was filled with dark, jagged shapes with sharp teeth and red eyes. In one corner, a building was on fire. It was a child’s interpretation of a nightmare.

"These are the monsters," Lily whispered.