Trespassers

by Claire McFall

  Later that afternoon, English class was more bearable. The poem the teacher read to them moved Tristan, the words beautiful and evocative. Then she spoiled the whole thing by insisting they annotate it, line by line, dissecting it like a wild creature on a butcher’s table. What had begun as a fluid, graceful thing became heart, lungs, bones… nothing but cold dead pieces.

  Tristan kept his thoughts to himself because, unlike with every other subject, Dylan seemed to like the softly spoken poetry assassin.

  Maths up next, though. What the hell was the point of maths? Unable to resist any longer, squashed again next to Dylan’s wheelchair, he reached up and grabbed at the school tie that Dylan had painstakingly knotted for him that morning. It resisted, somehow tightening and strangling him even further.

  “Tristan!” Dylan’s hiss jerked him out of his thoughts.

  He looked at her and she motioned her head towards the front of the class. A woman stood there, mousy in a woollen pink cardigan and tortoiseshell glasses, next to their balding maths teacher.

  “Tristan Fraser?” she called again, her tone making it obvious that this wasn’t the first time she’d called him.

  “That’s you!” Dylan whispered furiously.

  “I know,” Tristan whispered back. While Tristan was the name he’d always chosen when taking a generic male form, he was still getting used to having a surname. “I can’t leave you.” She’d be completely helpless, her arm strength not enough to manoeuvre the heavy chair. And now he’d met some of her fellow pupils, he was loath to abandon her to their nastiness.

  “You’ll be back well before lunch,” Dylan told him, pushing at him now with her hand.

  “And if I’m not?”

  “Tristan Fraser!” He didn’t like hearing his name in that harsh, snappish voice, and Tristan sent the woman a sharp look. It didn’t deter her. “You’re needed in the office.” She gestured at him with her hand and Tristan reluctantly stood.

  “I’ll just wait here for you,” Dylan promised. “Go!”

  Tristan forced himself to smile at her, then left, following docilely behind the admin woman. He still didn’t want to leave Dylan, but he had to play nice, he reminded himself. He was a teenage boy, a pupil. He had to do what he was told.

  Especially because his place in Dylan’s flat was precarious at best. Joan didn’t trust him, didn’t like him – and wanted him out. He doubted Joan believed the story they’d told her about his past. Only her need for someone to care for Dylan in her absence had convinced the woman to give him a chance. Any slip up, any tiny blemish on his record – in the flat or at school – and he was out. Tristan was resolved to give her no reason to act on her threat.

  It chafed, though.

  A tight feeling gripped his chest as the woman led him down the corridor. When they hit the stairwell, the feeling dropped into his gut, churning and twisting. She’ll be fine, he told himself. She’d survived this soul-rotting place for three years without him. There were no wraiths here to hurt her, no monsters to slay. The only danger was a slow, painful death through boredom. Still, when he descended one flight of stairs and then the next, the feeling only grew.

  By the time he hit the ground floor, Tristan knew that it was more than simply concern for Dylan. He couldn’t breathe. His lungs were working frantically, but he was getting light-headed, feeling weak. He stumbled after the woman, using the wall for support. Every step he took, the debilitation only intensified. By the time they reached the main office, Tristan felt like he was going to die. He leaned heavily against the doorframe, knowing that if he moved, he’d fall. Shards of agony were searing up both legs.

  “I just have to ask you about your doctor and emergency contact,” the admin assistant said breezily, seeming unfazed by his tardiness and his current condition.

  “I don’t have a doctor yet,” Tristan forced the words out, struggling to focus through the bone-deep pain that was wracking his body. “But it’ll be the same as Dylan’s. My cousin,” he added. “The emergency contact will be the same too. Her mum, Joan McKenzie.”

  “Her phone number?” she asked, a form up to her nose, eyes squinting through her glasses.

  “I don’t have it memorised yet – can’t you get it from Dylan’s file?” he asked, temper colouring his own words. He couldn’t take much more of this. It felt like his organs were being crushed by steel hands, shredding them to mincemeat. He had to get back to Dylan. Now. He’d die if he didn’t get back to her.

  “Very well.” The woman pursed her lips in clear dissatisfaction.

  “Can I go?” Tristan managed to hold onto enough reason to remember he had to ask permission to leave. He gripped the door handle to keep his feet rooted to the spot until the woman said he could.

  She sighed, rolled her eyes “You still need to sign this.”

  “Fine.” He all but fell across the room. Snatching the pen from her hand – and causing a censorious tut from her – he scrawled the signature Dylan had helped him design – and lurched away.

  Run. He needed to run. And he would, if he could just make his legs work. Tristan lumbered down the corridor, bouncing from wall to wall. He slammed through the double doors guarding the stairs and used his hands to propel him upwards. With every step he took, the agony dulled, the panic diminished, until he was able to pause at the entrance to the maths corridor and collect himself.

  Head down, hiding his face from view, he took several deep breaths. The post-pain nausea that gripped him now was a mild irritation by comparison. He had to see Dylan with his own eyes, check she hadn’t suffered as he had.

  One look at Dylan’s ashen complexion told him she’d felt it too. Worse, she hadn’t been able to hide it. The teacher was hovering worriedly over her chair, one hand on her shoulder, and every pair of eyes was fixed in her direction.

  “Tristan.” The maths teacher caught sight of him, waved him over. “It seems Dylan’s not feeling well, but she didn’t want to leave without you.”

  It was obvious from the man’s relieved expression that ‘not feeling well’ didn’t come close to describing Dylan’s state. But even in the few seconds it took Tristan to cross the room he could see colour coming back into her cheeks.

  “I’ll take her home,” Tristan said, angling his body so he could squeeze past the desk and grip the handles of her wheelchair. He wanted to touch her – run his fingers over her hair, knock the teacher’s hand away and rub her shoulders.

  “Absolutely.” The teacher helped them pack up their things and smiled as he ushered them out the door. It showed just how much he wanted them out of the room in case something really was wrong with Dylan. “Take Dylan to the office and phone home, see if someone can come and get you.”

  “Right.” Tristan had no intention of stopping in at the office or asking anyone’s permission to take Dylan anywhere, but she insisted they at least signed out properly.

  At last, Tristan was able to push Dylan out into the fresh air. They didn’t talk until he’d negotiated the uneven pavements to the nearby park, wheeling Dylan over to a bench and angling the chair so that he could sit close enough to grip both of her hands. The air was chilled, but he suspected that wasn’t why her fingers were frozen.

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know.” She’d lost the pallor to her skin, but not the frightened, haunted look in her eyes. “I started feeling weird pretty much as soon as you left. I think something like this happened in the hospital when they took me for X-rays. But this time, it just got worse and worse… then suddenly it was better. I was almost feeling all right when you appeared back in the doorway.”

  “Weird?” he prompted.

  “Weird,” Dylan agreed. “At first it was like I couldn’t breathe, and I started to feel sick. But then… God. It hurt so bad. My legs felt like they were breaking again, and my back felt hot and wet. Agony, like it was bleeding.”

  “Let me see,” Tristan said encouraging her to lean forward so that he could gently lift the b
ack of her school jumper. He didn’t need to peel back her shirt – small dots of red patterned the fabric where blood had seeped through her bandages.

  “Just like on the train,” Tristan murmured.

  “What?”

  “Your injuries on the train. Your legs were broken, and you had gashes across your back, remember?”

  Dylan nodded, wide-eyed.

  “Why did it happen?”

  “I don’t know.” Tristan took a deep breath. “But Dylan, the same thing happened to me.”

  Dylan gaped at him.

  “The further away from you I got, the worse it was. When I was down in the office with that stupid woman,” he scowled at the memory, “I thought I was going to die.”

  Dylan’s horrified look made him sorry he’d been so candid.

  “What do you think it means?” She squeezed his hands and hunched over, looking for comfort, he realised.

  He couldn’t hug her, not with the bulky chair and her plaster-cast leg, but he shifted position so that she could rest her head on his shoulder, although probably not comfortably. She nestled closer regardless, and he realised just how afraid she must have been.

  “I think it means we’re not supposed to be apart from each other,” he told her gently. She sucked in a deep breath, but she didn’t argue. “I’m not supposed to be here…” he went on.

  “You are,” she interrupted. “You’re meant to be with me.”

  “I am,” he agreed. “You and I, we’re supposed to be together.” He huffed a laugh. “And I guess we’re going to have to take that literally from now on.”

  Dylan lay quietly against him for a long moment, her head tucked under his jaw.

  “Oh well,” she said, a good minute later. “That’s not exactly going to be a hardship.”

  “No,” he said. “It isn’t.”

  FIVE

  It wasn’t evening, not even close, but it was getting dark. The day had started cloudy, a match to Michael’s mood, and as they’d traversed the unforgiving landscape of his snow-covered wasteland, those clouds had gathered and grown. Now a storm broiled above their heads and the snowflakes that had been drifting all day were falling thicker, faster. The wind was picking up, burning their exposed faces and hands. Susanna gritted her teeth and resisted the urge to move quicker than Michael could handle.

  It wasn’t physical – nothing was physical for Michael any more – it was all in his mind. It was a subconscious delaying tactic. Susanna had seen it a thousand times. Souls dawdled in the wasteland because they were afraid to step into the unknown. A single step that took a lot of courage, courage the likes of Michael simply did not possess.

  Susanna could see herself shoving this soul across the line herself. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  “Come on,” she snapped at him, turning to where he was stumbling behind her. “We have to get to the next safe house as soon as we can.”

  She didn’t like the way the weather was turning, didn’t like the depth of shadows that were forming as light was sucked from the sky. And she definitely didn’t like the hisses and low snarls that were not the wind creaking over the land.

  “I’m trying,” Michael whined, his face pale except for an ugly red windburn splotch that spread across his nose and cheeks. “I hate this. I hate the snow. And I’m cold!”

  Susanna pursed her lips unsympathetically. She didn’t like it either, and she was tempted to point out that it was all Michael’s fault – that his mood affected the weather – but to be honest, she simply couldn’t be bothered with the explanation. It was her job to protect him. If that meant getting tough with him, so be it.

  “We need to move faster,” she urged. “It’s dangerous out here.”

  “Dangerous?” Michael coughed, glaring at her. “There’s nothing here!” He threw his hand out in a wide gesture: snow, snow and more snow, topped by an ugly grey sky. Only a few hardy trees and the black of rock scoured clean by the wind interrupted the endless white. It looked utterly empty, desolate.

  Susanna knew better. “We aren’t alone out here.”

  At that moment, the wind dropped. Right on cue, the wraiths that had been mewling menacingly to Susanna throughout the day chose to roar. A shrieking, growling, multi-layered rumble of sound. Susanna wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Michael paled even further, his face bleaching of all colour and turning his chapped nose a darker red.

  “What’s that?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  The wraiths sang again, sounding so eager, so bloodthirsty, even Susanna felt the hairs on her nape prickle. Without another word, Michael started forward, practically running even though each step sank his foot deep into the snow.

  Satisfied, Susanna followed. But her relief was short-lived. The safe house wasn’t in sight. It wasn’t even over the next rise, or the next one. They had a long way to go, and the wraiths sounded impatient. They were hungry, and it was as if they could already taste Michael’s flesh. One quick glance at the sky told her the heavily laden heavens were only getting darker. They were going to have to fight.

  Michael didn’t strike her as much of a fighter.

  Blowing out a breath, Susanna stared off into the landscape. For a moment she let the expanse of white drain away to see the wasteland as it truly was underneath Michael’s projection. Heat–blasted hills, drenched in blood-red colour, and a thousand other souls making the crossing with their guides. An army of ferrymen but still no Tristan. She felt alone. Lonely.

  Without Tristan, her world was a different place. But who in their right mind would come back, having left this behind? She didn’t blame him, but at moments like this, oh how she missed him. Blinking once, she let the chill of snow settle on her once again, the wind biting into her face before she’d even opened her eyes.

  Back to work. She needed to focus.

  Trotting to catch up with Michael, she took a firm grip on his arm and tugged him along faster still. It was hopeless, but it was her job. If they couldn’t outrun the slavering beasts that were stalking them, she’d have to fight them. It was a losing battle against a creature – creatures – who couldn’t be killed.

  They crested the next small hill. Michael paused, gasping, looking for a break, but Susanna couldn’t let him have it.

  “Come on. It’s not far.”

  It was far, but there was no sense telling him that. It might even make him throw in the towel. And here was not a good place to quit. It was too open, the wraiths could come at them from all sides.

  They started down the hill, snow tumbling away from their sliding feet. Susanna behind Michael, the scruff of his jacket firm in her hand so she could steady and push him at the same time. Still, it wasn’t enough to hang on to when he suddenly dropped like a stone.

  One of his legs sank thigh-deep into the snow and the other buckled, unable to support his whole weight. As soon as Susanna felt the fabric tear from her fingers, she reached for him, but it was too late. He was tumbling, twisting, flailing down the hill, gravity speeding him away much faster than she could hope to follow.

  “Michael!” she yelled, rushing down to him as fast as the deep drifts would allow. He lay slumped twenty metres below, face-down, body unmoving. “Michael!”

  He needed to get up. He needed to get up now. If he just lay there motionless, he was a gift for…

  Even as the thought flew through Susanna’s mind, the perfect white snow that surrounded Michael began to bleed an inky, evil black. Curls of smoke rose from the frozen ground, coalescing into shadows clothed in rags, gaping maws snarling and screeching. Wraiths.

  “Michael, get up!”

  He jerked this time, lifted his head, but he made no move to rise, to defend himself. He just gaped at the hissing demons that were circling him in swooping, swirling dives.

  Susanna was close. Ten metres. Five. Three.

  Close enough to see the utter terror on Michael’s face. Paralysed. Helpless. An easy meal for the wraiths that surrounded him. T
hey were cackling – gleeful at their find.

  “No!” Bracing herself, Susanna threw her body over Michael as they descended en masse. The air was forced from her lungs as claws pierced her clothes and skin. She cried out as pain flared through her shoulders, her hips and her legs, but she didn’t move from Michael.

  Holding him with one hand, she lashed out with the other, tearing a wraith free of her leg. Blood spurted from a series of long, deep furrows, painting the pristine snow in jagged drops of crimson.

  The wraiths went wild at the iron scent of Susanna’s blood. It didn’t matter to them that ferrymen weren’t food; they liked to hurt, too. The creature she’d thrown free clamped itself to her foot again as Susanna struggled to dislodge a pair that were working at her shoulders, trying to get at her vulnerable neck.

  Her hands were numb with the cold, fingers wet with melted snow. Below her, Michael was whimpering and moaning, but at least the wraiths couldn’t get to him. Their angry screams and wails revealed their growing frustration, as did the relentless slashes of their teeth and talons as they tore at Susanna.

  It hurt. Susanna clenched her jaw and scrunched her eyes closed, trying to shut out the pain. No matter what, she couldn’t let go. The soul was paramount. Her life, her pain – inconsequential. She repeated that in her head as a wraith snuck under her heavy jacket and tore right into her side, slicing through flesh like butter.

  You can’t die, she reminded herself. You’ll be all right. Just breathe.

  The wraiths changed tactics. Instead of trying to cut through her to the soul they were so hungry for, they dug in to her jacket – shoulders, waist, hood – and pulled.

  Susanna flew backwards and up, high into the air. The wraiths carried her writhing and struggling body until Michael was just a dark blob down below. A dark, unmoving blob.

  Then they plummeted, pushing her ahead of them.