by Darcy Coates
“No.” He pushed her back down as she tried to stand. “Rest your leg.”
“It’s not so bad.” The dull throb refused to abate, and a bloom of red had developed on the bandages. Clare was frightened of what her leg would do if she tried to stand on it, but she needed to make it work. Their odds were so poor already, she couldn’t afford to be a liability.
“No,” he insisted, his voice gentle. “Not just yet. Please.”
Clare reluctantly sank back. Dorran made two bowls of food, and Clare forced it down. They needed all the energy they could get.
The noise just wouldn’t abate. It was wearing Clare down, shattering her resilience a fragment at a time. She wondered if that was their intention—not to get into the bus, but to stop the occupants from resting or thinking. Clare longed for just a moment of silence. She put her empty bowl aside and pressed her hands over her ears. It didn’t stop it.
Dorran watched her, sadness etched over his features. Clare tried to smile for him, but the expression came through crooked. He didn’t return it.
“I’m so sorry,” he said.
“This isn’t your fault.” She shook her head, hands still in place to muffle the creatures.
“We have the radio,” Dorran said, his eyes brightening. “It won’t stop the noise completely, but it will be a distraction. Would that help?”
“Yes, please!” The radio would attract additional hollow ones, but it wasn’t like that could make their situation any worse than it already was. Her only regret was that it didn’t have the ability to transmit.
Dorran found the light-grey box near the front of the bus and carried it back to her. It turned on with a flick of the switch. Static played. Before leaving Evandale, Unathi had given them the frequency to listen to for updates. Clare was desperate to hear from them. Even if they had no news, just hearing one of her friend’s voices would have been a welcome relief. Dorran switched to it, and they waited expectantly, but the channel was silent.
Don’t read too far into it. They wouldn’t broadcast continuously. Not unless they had significant news.
She couldn’t stop her heart from sinking, though. Dorran began turning the dial, hunting through stations. They pressed close to the radio, fighting to find any human sounds inside the white noise. There was nothing—not even Ezra’s station, the radio channel that had played one second of noise at a time as a way to conceal directions to his location. His generator must have died. The hollows gathered around the building had probably already dispersed.
Dorran searched the band twice with no results. Clare tried not to let her disappointment show as he turned the radio off.
“I am so sorry,” he said.
“Not your fault,” she repeated. There has to be some way to get out. We can’t stay in the bus much longer. But if we step outside, we’re as good as dead.
Her mind flitted around the problem, teasing it at every angle. If the hollows had been sent to stop them from thinking, it was working. She was exhausted. The thin sliver of light escaping from under the shutters was moving with slow, ponderous precision as the sun rose.
They have to stop eventually. Their hands will wear out. They’ll need to sleep. Won’t they?
Beth had said she didn’t need rest. That had to be true for the rest of the hollows, as well. Clare closed her eyes. She became aware of the bus rocking in tiny increments under the ceaseless hands. Her leg throbbed in time with it. She wanted to scream.
There has to be something we can do. An angle I’ve overlooked. Some way to get past them, to stop them.
Her consciousness waxed and waned, and she wouldn’t have even known she’d slept except that the sun’s direction changed in abrupt shifts. Its angles had become long when Dorran stood and paced along the bus, towards the door. He stood facing it, staring towards Winterbourne, even though the covers blocked it from sight. In the dimness, it took her a moment to make out his expression. There was wildness in it. Something desperate. Something furious. Darkness around his eyes told Clare he hadn’t rested.
“I want to try something reckless,” he said. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” she answered without hesitation.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
A cracked, desperate smile grew. “You shouldn’t. We might not survive this.”
She returned his smile. “Honestly, I don’t think survival is my top priority anymore. I’ll do anything if it gets us out of this bus.”
“Yes, it will certainly do that.” He tilted his head. “Can you walk?”
She stood. Her leg screamed. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply through her nose, and waited for the pain to subside. It held her weight. She took a limping step. “Yeah. I’ll be all right.”
Dorran was at her side. His hands ran across her face, a soft caress, then he kissed her. “Please forgive me.”
She shivered. “What for?”
“You deserved better than this.”
“I wouldn’t be anywhere else. I love you.”
“And I love you, my darling Clare. More than you could guess.”
He held her, and for that moment, it was almost possible to forget the clawing sounds surrounding them. Dorran, her rock, the best thing in her life, rested his lips on the top of her head, breathing in her hair. His hands shook as they ran over her shoulders. Then he stepped back, and there was a steady resolution in his eyes. “Let’s get out of here.”
Dorran moved through the bus in long paces, pushing supplies into a backpack, which he dropped by the door. “We have the radio, the first aid kit, and the remaining food. Is there anything else in the bus that you want to keep? Because this is our last chance to get it.”
Clare turned her eyes over the space. The bus had carried them well, despite the abuse it had been put through. “Nothing we can’t live without. What can I do?”
“Stay at my side. I never want you out of arms’ reach, no matter what. You can lean on me as much as you need. But we will likely have to move fast. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
Dorran reached above her to pull down the last carton of fuel they had bought from West Hope. Clare drew a breath. Realising his plan sent chills through her, but she didn’t try to argue; Dorran was right—it might be their only chance to get out.
He unscrewed the cap and tipped the carton. Fuel splashed across the bed and the rear seats. The fumes filled Clare’s nose, drowning out the stench of the hollows, and stung her eyes. She backed up, moving towards the front of the bus, and Dorran followed, resealing the jug with half the fuel still inside. Clare opened the storage hatch near the driver’s seat and found a matchbox. She passed it to Dorran. He nudged Clare so that she would be behind him, close to the door, then gave her a grim smile. “I love you, my dearest Clare.”
Terrible anticipation quivered inside, but her voice stayed strong. “Light it up.”
He flicked the match across the abrasive strip. It hissed, bright, fed by the gasses. Dorran extended his arm and flicked his wrist, tossing the match towards the back seats.
The area ignited before the match even landed. A rolling wave of fire burst towards them. Dorran wrapped his arms around Clare and leaned over her, shielding her, as the sudden warmth stung her skin.
The first rush of heat was gone within seconds. Clare squinted her eyes open. The rear half of the bus crackled with flames so large that she could feel their warmth radiating across her. Already, smoke began to fill the cramped space.
Dorran crouched to unscrew the fuel carton again. He took a cotton shirt and wrapped it around the end of a piece of rebar, tying it into place, to form a makeshift torch. He then doused the fabric in fuel, before resealing the carton, still a third full.
“Stay close.” His eyes looked feverishly bright with the flames reflecting on them. Clare nodded. Smoke stung her throat and her eyes, and the air tasted too thin. Dorran extended the torch towards the inferno and lit it. Flames arced up from the cotton, scorching the bus’s roof.
Dorran gave her
a short nod. Clare unlocked the door and shoved it open in a single motion. Smoke poured past them as fresh air rushed in, and the flames redoubled their strength. Hollows had clustered around the door, prepared to scramble on board. Dorran snarled and thrust the torch towards them. The nearest hollow wailed as the flame hit its face, singing the flesh.
The multitude of creatures backed away, leaving a small patch of clear ground outside the bus. Glass cracked somewhere within the inferno. The roar was deafening.
Dorran stepped out of the bus, torch extended towards the monsters, bag of supplies slung over one arm. Clare followed, leaning on his shoulder to take pressure off her injured foot. The fire was already spilling out of the windows, scorching the plywood and sending a pillar of black towards the sky.
“Back,” Dorran snarled, swiping the torch at the closest creatures.
They barely paid him any attention. They stared towards the flaming bus, mouths agape in voiceless screams, bones rippling under their skin as they backed away.
“Up the stairs, quickly,” Dorran whispered to Clare. He threw the backpack over his shoulder, lifted the carton of fuel in one hand, and carried the torch in the other.
Every step sent agony arcing up Clare’s leg. She tried to lengthen her paces, but it was as though she’d lost control over her ankle. It didn’t want to land properly, always threatening to twist, to drop her to the ground. Dorran felt her falter and stopped, tilting his body to offer her his shoulder. Grateful, Clare grabbed for it, and he pulled against her weight to help hold her up.
The ring of hollows broke as they moved through it. They were at the steps. Clare looked down and saw she’d left a red imprint in the snow with every step. She tried to move faster and staggered. Dorran waited for her to tighten her hold on him, then pulled her upright. The doorway loomed open ahead of them. Behind, the hollows skittered, racing with frantic energy, their howls rising into the cooling night air.
An explosion rocked them. The heat rushed around Clare like a shockwave, rattling her bones. She gasped, breathless, tumbling forward onto the top step. Dorran dropped the fuel carton and hooked his arm under her.
“Please, Clare, please, we have to keep moving.” He spoke softly, but the urgency in his voice was unmistakable.
Clare put her leg back under herself and almost screamed. She clenched her teeth until her jaw ached. Dorran lifted her again, then retrieved the fuel carton as they stepped inside Winterbourne.
She sent one final glance behind them, through the doorway. The bus was engulphed in flames that rose twenty feet into the sky. The metal was warping, the plywood peeling off the windows, and the wheels melting. The red flames blended into the sky, and for a moment, it looked as though the whole world was burning.
Then Clare faced the foyer again. It was a polar opposite of the fiery outside world. Cold. Barren. It was winter. Resentment. Bitterness. Faces appeared in doorways, and multi-jointed limbs slunk across the marble floor and crept down the stairs.
Dorran lifted the carton of fuel in one hand and the torch in his other. When he spoke, his voice boomed, carrying into the deepest parts of the house. “Winterbourne will burn just as easily!”
Embers floated towards the floor as the cotton shirt charred. Dorran pointed it towards the hollows on the stairs. His voice didn’t waver. “Touch her, and I will set flame to this cursed building. Hurt her, and everything you cherish will be burnt to the ground. We can be consumed by the fire together. There is enough wood in Winterbourne for a merry blaze.”
Clare’s heart raced. She held on to Dorran’s arm, trying to stay upright. The hollows didn’t react to Dorran’s words. They continued to creep closer, their naked bodies and hairless heads shining in his light.
Then a loud, sharp chatter pierced the building, making Clare flinch. Dorran shuddered under her hand. The hollows dropped their heads, eyes blinking rapidly as though in fear of a blow. Then, as one, they began creeping backwards into the darkness.
That was her. Madeline.
Dorran’s expression was tight and pained. He’d heard his mother’s voice in the bestial scream. “We have to move quickly, before she can change her mind.”
Clare nodded. The stairs were daunting. The second floor looked impossibly high above them, and her leg was a tangle of searing pain.
Dorran tucked the fuel under his arm still holding the torch and slid his other arm under Clare’s shoulders. He pulled her up, carrying most of her weight, as they moved towards the stairs. Clare closed her eyes for the climb, relying on Dorran to keep her moving. The pain was spreading through her body, threatening to steal her consciousness. She focussed on their goal. They were so close to safety. It didn’t matter how little strength she had once she was in the room; she just had to hold on for then.
They reached the third floor. Clare opened her eyes again. Hollows lined the hallway. They crouched like living gargoyles in the gloom that clung across the walls, staring at the two humans. Clare took a sharp breath, afraid of moving closer when they were both so vulnerable, but Dorran pulled her forward. They passed between the first flanking of hollows, and the monsters hissed at them.
“Keep going,” Dorran urged, breathless.
The torch was fading, the scorched remains of the shirt withering as the fuel ran out. Clare focussed on the door ahead of them. Three of the monsters clustered around it, and they drew back as Clare and Dorran stepped closer. She moved as quickly as she could while dragging the injured foot. Her vision swam, and her lungs gasped futilely as though the air had been stripped of oxygen.
One of the hollows lunged forward, jaws snapping just shy of Clare’s arm. Dorran barked at it, thrusting the torch towards its face, and it lurched away. The other hollows set up a screaming clamour, and Clare grit her teeth against the noise.
They were at the door. The torch was dead. Dorran dropped it as he pulled out the keys. Hands touched Clare’s back. She flinched. The hollows had pressed in, horribly tight, almost suffocating, their clammy, blistered fingers running over her body.
The door’s lock clicked. It swung open. Dorran moved Clare through and slammed the door on the prying fingers. The lock clicked shut. Clare felt her grip on Dorran’s arm weakening, and a stuttered, relieved chuckle escaped her before she slid to the floor.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Dorran caught her. He threw the carton of fuel aside, then one hand went around the back of Clare’s head to keep it stable. She dragged in a shuddering breath, trying to fight the dizziness and sickness that threatened, and smiled. “We did it.”
“We did.” He smiled back, but the expression faded as he looked down at her leg. His eyes darkened as he carefully touched the bandages. They were soaked in red. “Oh, Clare. Hold on.”
He lifted her and moved her onto the bed. Clare grimaced as her leg turned, but she was just grateful to get her weight off it. The dizziness was fading, and she pushed herself up onto her elbows as Dorran dropped the backpack beside them and hunted through it.
“I can’t believe that worked,” she said.
“Lay down.” He pressed her shoulder lightly, his attention still fixed on her leg, but Clare didn’t budge. As he began unwrapping the soaked bandages, he said, “It was a risky gamble. We were lucky that my mother values her home as much as she does.”
Clare flinched as the wet bandages peeled off her leg. Dorran muttered unhappily then pulled out the box of painkillers.
“This must have hurt you badly. I am so sorry.”
“It was worth it to get out of the bus.” Exhaustion might have distorted her emotions, but Clare couldn’t stop grinning.
“Hah.” Dorran rose and disappeared into the bathroom. When he returned, he had a glass of water for her.
Clare swallowed the tablets. The cold water felt good on her smoke-scratched throat. “Madeline must really love this house.”
Dorran laid out his equipment—clean towels, surgical needle and thread, water, and fresh bandages—before speaking. “It’s
a chess game. My mother is not reckless. She can sit with an unpleasant situation for weeks or even months if it means she ultimately gets what she wants. If she were more given to being ruled by emotions, we likely wouldn’t have made it past the foyer. But she still thinks she can turn this into the outcome she most desires.”
“She wants you to stay here willingly,” Clare said.
His glance was full of anxiety. “Yes. I threatened to take everything she sought—the house and my own life. She is allowing you to live to appease me for now, but it will not be a permanent concession.”
“No, of course it wouldn’t be.” Clare bit the inside of her cheek as the needle dipped into her torn skin. She looked towards the ceiling, seeking patterns in the paint to distract herself.
“She has made a conservative move,” Dorran said. “She is prepared to bide her time. It might take days, weeks, or even months for her countermove, but I am certain it will come, and it will be dealt when we are most vulnerable to it.”
He knows her so well. That’s from a lifetime of dealing with her mind games, trying to guess her motives, and having to protect himself against her schemes.
“I’m sorry your family sucks,” Clare said.
Dorran looked up, surprised, then began chuckling. “I’m sorry you had to become involved in it.”
“Eh. I won’t lie—it would be nice to get along with my mother-in-law, but at least you let me stab her, so that’s a consolation.”
Dorran sat back on his heels, shaking with laughter. It took a moment for him to subside. “Oh, I am glad you are with me. You can make anything bearable.”
“Do you have a plan for a countermove, or are we playing it by ear?”
“I have an idea.” He lowered his voice. “It will require patience and prolonging this stalemate for as long as possible.”
“Ah.” Clare smiled. “Until Becca activates the code.”
“Exactly. It is the only possible way out that I can see. We cannot attack Madeline; even if we knew where to find her, she would be too well-guarded. We cannot leave Winterbourne now that the bus is gone. So we will stay sheltered and keep you protected. We will let her own patience be her downfall.”