by Darcy Coates
She finished by saying, “There are scientists who think they can treat it. They think that destructing the thanites will kill the hollows. If you have a radio, I can give you the frequency to listen for updates.”
“I’d like that.” Mother Gum had listened patiently to the story, though Clare wasn’t sure how much she had understood. The gentle, unchanging smile reminded Clare of the way her aunt Marnie had smiled when Clare talked about technology. She liked being part of the conversation, but the intricacies were beyond her.
Clare cleared her throat. Even though the house held an intimate atmosphere with just her, Dorran, Mother Gum, and the cat, she couldn’t shake the memory of the surly children outside, who appeared almost too tall and thin. “I hope it’s okay to ask, but… has anyone here… changed at all? Started to grow things, I mean?”
She recalled the blank stares that seemed to hold echoes of the hollows’ incomprehension. Their arms held limply at their sides. Their sullen features. The infection might not have been severe enough to strip their humanity immediately, but Beth was proof that it would continue to degrade a person with each passing day. She didn’t want to imagine the sweet Mother Gum being torn apart by the brood she loved.
Mother Gum only chuckled, though. “Oh, don’t you worry, my pretty. My children aren’t like those monsters outside. They don’t like strangers, and they don’t like letting new people into our home, but they’re all good souls deep down.”
“But…” Clare took a gulp of the tea to buy herself seconds. “But if they’re changing at all…”
“You worry so much.” Mother Gum reached across the table and patted Clare’s hand. “You’re a sweet girl. But my children are all right. I only had eight to begin with. They were all away, working in the farms or hunting in the forest, on the day it happened. Some were more than an hour away. When they returned late that night, they told me about the things they had seen. And I said, ‘We need to close the gate, and we won’t be going back out for a while.’ The others—the ones I didn’t bring into the world myself—they came later. Visitors who were trying to run from the outside, who were lost and scared, and who just needed a place to stay. It is so hard to turn anyone away.”
“Oh.” Clare let herself relax again. The thanites’ density had been controlled by how many people lived in an area. Cities had been swarmed with them; rural areas, not so much. Eight people spread across kilometres would still have gotten a dose of the thanites—but probably not much more than Clare herself had.
“Our fence keeps us safe,” Mother Gum continued. “And my children know how to kill the strange ones before they grow close. They only really come at night. It is secure here. A good home.”
“Are you doing okay for food?” Clare asked.
“Oh, yes, yes. We have a garden behind the shed. We eat well.”
“Good.”
“What about you, my lovely? Where are you heading?”
“Home.” She and Dorran had made a point of keeping Winterbourne’s location a secret. Even though they wanted to open it up to outsiders once it was stabilised, they couldn’t risk raids or hungry visitors before the garden was established and the defences were in place. “Another couple of days from here.”
“Do you need any bits and bobs for the trip?” The watery eyes blinked dozily.
“Oh…” They had come with the hope of finding fuel, but seeing how basic Mother Gum’s home was, Clare didn’t feel comfortable asking. She swallowed. “We’re all right. I mean, if you know anywhere nearby that might have petrol, that would be a big help—”
“Don’t worry about that, my sweet. We have petrol here. Take a few cartons.”
“Are you sure?” She looked between Dorran and Mother Gum. “You probably need it yourself—”
“Not since we can’t travel to the farms.” Mother Gum flapped a hand to wave away her concerns. “There’s nothing we need fuel for except the tractors. You’ll be able to use it, and this way, it won’t go bad.”
“Oh. Thank you so much. It would really be a huge help.” Clare felt strangely giddy. She grinned at Dorran, but his smile was brief.
“Henry will take you.” Mother Gum twisted in her seat to face the door. “Henry?”
One of the gormless young adults appeared in the doorway. His hair hung to his shoulders, greasy and limp, and he didn’t return any of their smiles.
“He’s a sweet boy,” Mother Gum said to Clare. “Henry, take our new friends to the shed and fetch them some fuel. You know where it is.”
He turned and disappeared outside without waiting for them.
“Thank you so much,” Clare repeated, standing. The chair’s awkward height had cut off part of the circulation to her legs, and she had to catch herself on the table’s edge. Dorran gave the orange cat a wide berth as he accompanied Clare to the door.
“I’ll pack you some biscuits for the rest of your drive,” Mother Gum said. She folded her hands in front of herself, beaming. “Make sure you pick them up before you leave.”
Chapter Six
Henry had nearly disappeared around the building’s corner, and Clare hurried to catch up with him. More faces watched her from the weed-choked yard.
What an odd family. How did so many people end up living here? She supposed, in the silent world, any kind of safe home would be highly sought after. And Mother Gum was very sweet. The idea of joining the family could be tempting for someone who didn’t have one of their own.
Henry led Clare and Dorran towards the third building in the compound: the roughly built wooden barn. He shoved the door, forcing it open, and stepped back for Clare and Dorran to enter.
“Clare,” Dorran said.
Having already stepped over the threshold, she turned to face him. He looked conflicted. Henry waited, frowning slightly, and after a second, Dorran also stepped inside.
“Is something wrong?” Clare whispered.
He shook his head.
Clare had enjoyed talking with Mother Gum, but now, all of the earlier anxiety returned. Something was bothering Dorran, and she knew better than to doubt his instincts. She kept close to his side as Henry stepped around them, moving towards the back wall.
A thick, unpleasant scent filled the shed. A mix of spilt oil, decaying hay, and rotting food, Clare thought. She pressed her sleeve over her nose and tried to breathe through her mouth. It was strong enough to make her dizzy. There was no light in the shed. She relied on the hazy glow from the open door to see the contents. Beams and benches, sack cloths, barrels, machines. Nests of shadow and dust. Henry didn’t seem bothered, at least. He stopped at the back wall and pointed towards metal cans stacked on a shelf.
We shouldn’t take them all. No matter what Mother Gum says, she might need some. But… one or two. That would buy us the time we need.
Clare stumbled over the uneven floor as she moved towards the cases. She caught herself against the wall and chuckled. “Bit dark in here, huh?”
Henry’s lips twitched—in a smile or a grimace, Clare couldn’t tell. She took another step towards the shelf then hesitated. From her angle by the wall, she could see around a stack of crates. The wooden boxes, filled with what looked like rusted machinery, created a simple wall around the shed’s back corner. A gap had been left, wide enough for a person to walk through, and inside, an odd shape lay among more hay and sack clothes. It looked strangely like a human hand.
She tilted her head to the side. It was a human hand. The fingernails were starting to peel off as decay split the skin. A hollow. Dead, at least. One must have made it over the wall.
She took another step forward then stopped again. The fingernails were short. They had clearly been cut. The hollows had all either grown long fingernails or lost them since their transformation.
This is wrong. This is very, very wrong. Clare turned towards Henry. She barely had the chance to open her mouth.
Dorran hit her side. Clare’s world spun as he pulled her down and pinned her to the floor. Her no
strils were filled with the scent of hay, dust, and rotting flesh. She heard the smack of an axe hitting the wood above them, but it took a beat to recognise what it was. Dorran was already up. He grappled with Henry, gripping the axe’s handle, the weapon suspended over their heads.
Clare rolled onto her side. She felt dazed, as though the fall had knocked something loose in her mind. Everything seemed to be happening too fast. She couldn’t make sense of it.
Two more men were running towards them, crude weapons in their hands, their thin hair haloed by the light coming from the open shed door. Bloodless lips were pulled back from teeth as their earlier apathy vanished.
Dorran disengaged from Henry to dodge a pickaxe aimed for his knees. He leapt back, putting himself between the men and Clare.
Get up. Fight! Dorran needs you! Clare searched for a weapon—and found none. That part of the floor was bare except for hay, and the three men stood between her and the farming implements. Her brain was slow to give her an answer, but then she remembered the knife she had tucked into her jacket pocket.
One of the men was almost on top of them, a length of chain clenched in his fists, aiming for Dorran’s throat. Clare was close to his legs. She pulled out the knife, flicked the blade open, then stabbed it into the only place she could reach: his thigh. A spray of hot blood burst across her fingers.
Sickening horror latched on to Clare. In the moment, she had forgotten they were fighting real, living humans. The blood slicked her palm, and she lost her grip on the knife as the man staggered back, the blade still embedded. He released a choked, gurgling scream as he hit the blockade of crates, knocking them over and exposing the shed’s back corner.
Bodies had been heaped there. Men and woman of all ages were in different stages of decomposition. The temperatures had been cold enough to slow the rot, leaving grey skin to fester.
Limbs were tangled in unnatural angles. One head faced the ceiling, lips open in a sigh of surprise. Hazy eyes gazed at the rafters. Her throat had been cut, and the ragged line of flesh ran from under one ear to the other. Beside her, half draped across her, was a man’s body. His mouth was also open and held in place. A screwdriver protruded from between his teeth, stabbing up towards his brain.
These were never hollows. They were people. People who saw the sign for Mother Gum’s Nest and took a chance on visiting.
Clare’s balance was gone. A rushing noise filled her ears. She turned to look for Dorran. He was forced back, pinned against a barrel. He lifted his leg and slammed his foot into his attacker’s chest. A bone cracked. The man fell back, face contorted in pain. He coughed, and a dribble of blood ran over his lip.
“Clare.” Dorran was back at her side in a heartbeat, grabbing her shoulders. He pulled her up. She struggled to get her legs under herself, clinging to his jacket for balance. Henry dislodged his axe from the wall. The man with the knife in his thigh staggered closer.
Dorran pulled her towards the door. She ran with him, desperate to be out of the killing shed, away from the collection of bodies. A spit of rain hit her cheek as they made it outside. Dorran swung sharply, slamming the shed’s door behind them before catching Clare’s hand and leading her forward. Ahead was Mother Gum’s house, and just beyond that would be their bus.
All of the cars scattered about the compound… I think we just met their owners.
Tears burned Clare’s eyes as she dragged in ragged breaths. They skidded in the cold mud as they ran for their escape. As they came out near the house’s front, Clare saw Mother Gum waiting for them on the porch.
Her hair was gone. Instead of the soft downy white, her head was covered with roughly cut grey stubble. She held her old hair in one hand, the plait bundled up so that it wouldn’t drag on the ground. A wig. Without the softening hair, it was starkly obvious that the rosy cheeks were rouge, and the watery green eyes held a spark of severity.
She faced their bus, watching as her children unloaded the supplies—a routine she had undoubtedly watched many times before. A rumble grew in Dorran’s chest, escaping him as a furious snarl. Mother Gum swung towards them, her mouth puckering with anger and shock. She leapt back with unexpected agility, away from Dorran’s path. He wasn’t aiming for her, though. He was moving towards the four men and women carrying boxes out of the bus.
This time, the element of surprise was on their side. The two women scattered. One man dropped his burden and lifted his fists. The other hesitated, torn between running and fighting.
Dorran’s fist snapped past the first man’s defences, connecting with his jaw and dropping him to the ground. That made the second man’s choice for him. He turned and fled towards the hall.
“Drive,” Dorran barked. He forced metal into Clare’s hand. Then he ran past her, disappearing around the bus.
Chapter Seven
Clare stared down at her hand. Dorran had given her the bus’s keys. She was still caught in a fugue of shock, and it took a second to pair the keys with the word drive. Then she aimed for the bus’s open door and leapt aboard.
Mother Gum was yelling. The grandmotherly, warbling tone disappeared in a slew of profanity. She was giving instructions to her children. “Don’t let them leave. Slash the tyres.”
Clare struggled to get the key into the ignition. Adrenaline roared through her, but it felt muted, as though all of the noises and sensations were coming through a veil. She didn’t know where Dorran had gone, and it frightened her that he was no longer with her.
The engine clicked over and came to life. She put the bus into gear and leaned onto the accelerator, her motions coming more from muscle memory than conscious thought. Tyres dug through the mud as the bus rocked forward. Dorran was nowhere to be seen.
Where is he? I can’t go without him, I can’t leave him behind, not here. She leaned over the wheel, searching through the field of broken-down cars for signs of movement. People were coming towards her. The lanky, too-thin men and women of the compound carried machetes, their loose brown clothes billowing in the wind and spitting rain.
Can’t stay here. Can’t leave without Dorran. Where is he? Why did he go?
Then she saw him. He’d run ahead of her, along the dirt track leading to the impossible fence. He leaned against the gate, his muscles straining as it ground open. Others were running towards him, though. They had weapons and would be upon him in a moment, but Clare wasn’t even sure he had seen them. His head was down as he forced the gate open with painstaking effort.
She pushed onto the accelerator, dragging energy out of the sluggish bus. One of the men leapt out of the way.
What do I do? Her reflexes felt blunted, her mind full of cotton. She didn’t know if she should slow down or go faster. She needed to get Dorran onto the bus, but if she slowed down, the others would catch up to her.
The gate was just barely wide enough for the vehicle to fit through. But Dorran continued to strain against it, and he was in her path. In a burst of blind panic, Clare hit the brakes. The momentum was immense. The bus wouldn’t slow in time. She was aimed right for Dorran’s back.
He moved at the last second, darting to the side. The bus rocketed through the open gate. She felt something snag on its side and bit her lip as she leaned forward to see into the mirrors. Dorran had caught onto the plyboard nailed to the windows. He had his feet pressed against the bus’s side, shoulders hunched as he held on to the vehicle. Clare hit the button to open the doors. They were slowing, the brakes finally stopping their mad rush downhill, and Dorran leaned into the momentum as he slipped forward, neatly stepping through the open door. He was breathing heavily, his eyes full of fire as he looked behind them.
“Faster,” he said.
She put pressure on the accelerator. The open door nearly clipped a tree as the bus picked up speed. Dorran wrenched it closed then stood beside her, legs braced to balance against the rocking motion.
The road ahead was blurry. Clare tried to navigate, but she wasn’t reacting with enough dexterity. The bus�
�s other side scraped a tree, wrenching a branch loose in an explosion of splinters.
“I can’t—” Even her words felt faltering.
Dorran came up beside her, a gentle hand on her arm. “I can drive.”
The changeover was faster than Clare had thought possible. She slid out of the seat while Dorran held the wheel, and in a second, he had taken her place. The engine rumbled as he pushed it to move faster. Clare caught herself on the passenger seat and dropped into it, then looked in the side mirror.
Three of the gaunt youths were running in the bus’s wake, but they were already disappearing into the distance. As she watched, they slowed to a staggering halt, lips peeled back in angry, fearful grimaces.
Dorran braked suddenly as the bus burst out of the forested area and back onto the main road. He wrenched the wheel, coaxing the minibus around to face the setting sun. But before they had travelled more than a dozen meters, he braked again.
Clare opened her mouth to ask what he was doing, but the sudden direction changes left her dizzy and sick. She clung to her seat, one hand braced on the window, as Dorran put the bus into reverse. He adjusted their angle using the side mirrors and backed into the hand-painted wooden sign. Mother Gum’s Nest, Weary travellers welcome bowed under the pressure from their bus’s rear then cracked and collapsed into the mud.
“I know they’ll just put it back up,” he grumbled. “But at least this way, I feel better.”
Clare cracked a smile. Dorran ran the bus’s rear wheels over the sign before turning back to the road. The path was mostly straight, and he allowed the bus to creep up to an aggressive pace as they sped away from the compound. For a moment, Clare’s head was full of the roar of motion and Dorran’s ragged breaths. They seemed too loud. Deafening. The palm she pressed to the window was slick with sweat.