The abandoned building, once a refuge for Quinn and her dreaded companion 'Greg,' nestled amidst the decaying urban landscape, stood as a weathered sentinel of a bygone era. Its timeworn facade bore the scars of time; its once-vibrant colors had faded into muted shades of gray and brown. Broken windows, their jagged edges like broken dreams, gaped open to the elements, allowing nature's relentless advance to infiltrate the structure. It had been sufficient for the duo to spend a few hours of rest, gather what little supplies were left, and plan their next move - would they traverse deeper into the city or remain on the outskirts where it was relatively 'safe'?

"Nothing out there anymore, girl," Greg grumbled, his voice etched with the weariness of the world, his rough hands pulling the laces of his rucksack tight, sealing it shut. Quinn couldn't help but despise Greg, detest his very name – it felt as if it stumbled and faltered on the tongue, coming to an abrupt halt.

'Greg.'

Yeah, she had hated it. Her response was defiant, a flicker of determination in her tired eyes as she gazed out over the sprawling, broken city from their temporary refuge. "There was always something out there," Quinn countered, her voice a whisper of unwavering hope in a world that had grown so bleak. She had been looking out of a broken window, watching in idle silence for any hint of movement. Of course, none had come; it hardly would unless there was a breach in the city's barricade or another traveler seeking refuge.

Quinn and Greg's paths had crossed not too long ago, a chance encounter in one of the desolate cities that punctuated their journey toward Atlanta. Fate, it seemed, had brought them together, and they both harbored a shared destination. Rumors of a small group forming for the perilous trek to Atlanta had ignited their hope, but that flickering flame was not without its setbacks.

Tony and Dave had joined their fragile alliance initially, but their resolve had crumbled along the way, and they had dropped off, lost to the unforgiving world they traversed.

They had not been missed. She had not been fond of them either.

"How far did we have left?" Quinn inquired, her voice carrying the weariness of countless miles and the weight of an uncertain future. Deep down, she yearned for rest, for a respite from the relentless march, but in this unforgiving world, such comforts were a distant memory. The specter of death loomed on the horizon, a constant reminder that they could ill afford to linger or let their guard down. She turned from the broken window and leveled her dark gaze on her companion, scowling, really.

Greg's response was as gruff and resolute as ever, a characteristic shrug of his powerful shoulders that spoke volumes about his pragmatism. This journey wasn't what he had envisioned, but the adage of strength in numbers held true in their world. Their destination held the promise of a community, something they both yearned for deep down. "Let's get going, kid," he declared, knowing full well that any response from Quinn would likely be met with resistance. He hoisted his rucksack and moved to unbar the door, leaving Quinn to ponder their uncertain path. "Not far," he finally answered her earlier question, offering a glimmer of reassurance in the midst of uncertainty. "Not far at all."

---

---

Two days had passed since the tense exchange between Quinn and Greg, but the unforgiving reality of their world refused to relent. In that brief span of time, the bitter taste of danger had revisited them once more. Greg had stumbled headlong into a pile of jagged and rusty debris, their notions of comfort shattered by the relentless decay of the world.

Now, an insidious infection seethed within Greg's leg, a grim testament to the ever-present risks they faced.

Desperation clawed at Quinn's heart, gnawing at her resolve as she confronted the brutal urgency of their predicament. Despite the bitterness that had festered between her and Greg, she couldn't deny that, in his own way, he had tried to safeguard her. Now, as his very existence hung in the balance, she had no choice but to set aside the tumult of her emotions and seek assistance.

The harsh truth was plain – time was an elusive wisp slipping through their fingers. Quinn needed to scour the desolate landscape, to seek out any vestige of help, any glimmer of civilization, or anyone who might hold the knowledge and resources to combat Greg's ravaging infection. In this realm where alliances were fleeting and survival paramount, she recognized that their fate rested upon her shoulders...

Just as the clamor of approaching hooves reached her ears, Quinn's heart danced a delicate waltz between hope and caution. Hooves? A horse, perhaps? In this forsaken realm, such a creature was a rarity, an anachronism. Her instincts led her to retreat into the shrouded depths of shadow, senses sharpened, eyes scanning the horizon with wary curiosity.

Her disbelief surged as her gaze fell upon the improbable sight. It was indeed a horse, noble and untamed, and astride its back, a woman, an enigma amid the desolation. A whirlwind of questions and possibilities swirled within Quinn's mind. Who was this woman? What had brought her to this bleak landscape? Could she be the lifeline they so urgently sought for Greg's infected leg?

Quinn needed to approach, but the challenge remained: how to do so without endangering herself and Greg? Screaming for help was too risky, as it could easily be mistaken for a trap and draw unwanted attention.

In her desperation, the dark-haired young woman lifted a piece of scrap metal and angled it to catch the light. It was a hopeful and silent plea for assistance, a signal only someone observant might notice amidst the desolation.

The desperation in Quinn's voice was palpable, and it was clear that she was struggling to maintain her composure. "Please!" Her cry for help wavered despite her best efforts to stay calm. Once more, she flashed the piece of scrap metal in an attempt to signal her location. Hidden behind a large tarp in an alleyway, barricaded for protection, she pleaded, "No infected beyond these parts, just a friend who is in need of help."

As panic threatened to overwhelm her better judgment, Quinn's mind raced at a dizzying pace. _{"Crap, okay, think of a plan. Think of anything."} Her desperation was evident as she continued, "My name is Quinn, Quinn Finch - it's my 25th birthday next month. Please - my friend cut his leg, and he has a fever."

The gravity of the situation hung in the air, and Quinn's words carried the weight of their desperate circumstances. Tension filled the alley. Then, there was a rustle behind the tarp, the sound of shoes climbing up and fabric stretching. Finally, the dirty face of a younger woman peered out from behind the tarp; she had dark hair and even darker eyes. "It is a horse!" she exclaimed, her voice a mixture of surprise and relief.