by Darcy Coates
Dorran took up the other end of the rope. His axe was stained black. Specks of blood were scattered over his arm and his chest. It smelled foul. Rotten. She bit her tongue to stop from gagging. They moved forward. The sled was too heavy to allow them to run, but they took fast steps, panting in lungfuls of burning air.
Chewing noises came from behind them as the hollows descended on their fallen comrade. They huddled over its body, fingers digging into the skin to expose the softer insides, teeth tearing off strips of fat and muscle. They ate like animals. Horrible wet smacking noises floated through the frosty air.
She turned back to the house. Rain blurred it. Running through the water as it trickled under their clothes would be hell, but it was better than lingering outside. They only had half of the field left to cross before they reached the blocks of white that marked the front gardens.
Under her pounding footsteps, she thought she caught another noise. Rasping breaths. Low, eager chattering. She felt the sled jerk and turned. A hollow clung to the top of their domed shelter, bony joints poking out at unnatural angles. It had teeth everywhere. At first, Clare’s mind revolted against the image, unable to understand what it was seeing. Bulging yellow teeth poked through its shoulders. Something like a deformed jaw gaped below its collarbone. The skin around its mouth was shredded, and additional teeth poked through the holes—hundreds of them. Clare yelled.
That second of shock cost her. The hollows moved at a blinding pace, scuttling on all fours. Some grasped at the sled. Others swarmed around it, reaching towards Clare. She moved on instinct, lifting the pitchfork and driving it into the nearest creature. The impact forced her back, and in a heartbeat, the others were on her.
Chapter Ten
A body slammed into her chest, winding her. Hard pressure dug into her forearm. Teeth, she thought, fighting and failing to get through the jackets. A new face loomed over her, just inches away, peering through her mesh mask. Saliva dripped from its open maw. The mouth stretched from one ear to the other like a gash. Its right eye bored into her. The left was missing, only a rotting dark-red socket in its place.
Dorran yelled. The pressure on her arm disappeared in time with the thwack of an axe. She heard scuffling as he was overrun by the creatures.
Clare pulled on the pitchfork, trying to use it to knock the monster off herself, but one of them was still impaled on its tip, weighing it down. Its body contorted as it stretched to reach her.
The hollow perched on her chest reached long, bony hands up to her mask. Its fingers traced over the mesh, trying to pry it away. The fingers were so close that she could see the whorls of its fingerprints and the dirt trapped under its nails. She could smell the rot from where a green infection spread around a cuticle.
The nails dug at the mesh. When it couldn’t get through, it lifted its hand and brought it down as a fist. Clare grunted. The impact crushed the mesh against her skin. Now, she could feel the fingers. Through the barrier—through the freezing wire—she could feel the clammy, spongy skin poking at her cheek.
Then the hollow whirled away. Dorran crouched over her. Blood painted a streak across his mask, dripping from the wire. He kept low, one hand braced over Clare, the other holding the axe at the ready. A hollow came forward. The axe cleaved through its neck, and Clare gasped as the head bounced over her stomach then tumbled away.
Dorran was yelling, but Clare couldn’t make out the words. Noise swallowed everything, rumbling and deep, like a mountain’s scream. She tilted her head back and saw the sleet was racing towards them.
We can run through the rain. But we can’t fight in it. It will sap our strength. Freeze us before we can get free. And it’s still so far to the house. We can’t outrun the hollows—
“The shelter,” she yelled to Dorran. She didn’t think he heard her. He moved sharply, furiously, stabbing at the creatures as they darted forward, still holding himself over Clare. She rolled to her side. The sled was less than five feet away. Hollows stood between them, but she thought, if they moved quickly, they might be able to make it. “Dorran! Follow!”
She grabbed his arm and yanked him as she moved. He obeyed. Together, they raced towards the sled, tripping over their snowshoes, staggering through the churned-up snow. Two of the hollows in their path scattered as they neared. The third crouched and sprang. Dorran swiped at it. The axe missed its mark, skimming across the hollow’s ribs, but it was enough to knock the monster aside. They were at the sled. Clare grabbed the dome, leaned back, and wrenched it up and over them. The twine holding it down snapped, and the sled jolted as the dome came free. She and Dorran pulled together on their knees and pressed against each other, as the structure dropped over them.
The hollows hit the shelter’s surface. The scrabbling was back, worse than it had ever been before. Above her. Around her. Inside her own head. The smell of hollow blood filled the space. Clare choked. Her arms had no more strength left in them, but she clung to Dorran. He held her in return.
“Shh, shh.” The murmurs should have been comforting, but distorted through the mask and trapped in the tiny shelter, they just made Clare shake harder.
Then a new sound joined the scrabbling: sleet. Hitting the ground outside. Hitting the fabric. Hitting the hollows. Strangely, it helped. The white noise drowned out the chattering and scrabbling. The rain’s rhythmic, unrelenting pounding soothed something deep inside her.
Clare lifted her head. Her mask was badly dented, pressing against her cheek, and it felt like it was rubbing her nerves raw. She fumbled to take it off. Dorran helped. He unfastened the straps from the back of her head, and finally, she felt as though she could breathe properly again.
The space was claustrophobic. Kneeling, pressed as close together as they could, their heads and shoulders still brushed the chicken-wire frame. The curtains were too heavy to let anything more than a distant trace of light through. Still, it was a respite. They were out of the rain and away from the scratching fingers.
Dorran unfastened his own mask and dropped it at his side. His skin was pale and glistened with sweat. Clare reached up, her fingers brushing over his cheek and trailing down to his chin. She’d never thought she would be so happy to see his face again.
“Are you all right?” He was still panting.
She was breathless, too, and nodded. A drop of icy water landed on her cheek, and she flinched away from it.
Dorran’s eyes tightened as he looked up. “This will not be waterproof. I designed it to protect from hail more than rain.”
“We were so close.” Clare huddled over even farther to avoid the drops that were appearing on the wire frame. Dorran adjusted his position so that they could sit side by side. His arm ended up wrapped around her waist. She leaned into his shoulder. Flecks of blood stuck to her cheek, but she was too tired to care.
“We are still alive,” Dorran said. “That is something to be grateful for.”
She let her eyes close as she rested against him. Outside, thunder crackled. The fingers, persistent, groped at the thick cloth. She could feel the creatures climbing over the dome. When lightning flashed above them, she could see the dark bodies silhouetted above them. Then the frame shivered. Fingers were prying under the edge of the dome. They wiggled through the snow, feeling and seeking. Dorran pulled his hatchet free from his belt. The sound of crunching bones was accompanied by low, angry hisses.
“Hold it down,” Dorran said. He took hold of the chicken wire above his head and pulled it towards himself. The dome bowed slightly as Clare added her weight to his.
The fingers continued to try to squirm under the shelter’s edge. Whenever they got too close, Dorran stabbed at them. Clare closed her eyes and tilted her head back. The sight of severed fingers and red-stained snow seeping around them turned her stomach. She breathed through her mouth, the smell of blood making her dizzy, as she clung to the wire and held the dome down.
Beth had hollows outside her bunker. When they hear her, they come looking for her. But s
he said they go away after a while if she stays quiet. A couple of hours, she said.
Clare peeked her eyes open. In the hazy, failing light, Dorran’s features were barely visible. He raised one gloved hand and hovered a finger over his lips. He’d had the same idea. Clare nodded.
They held as still as they could, their breathing slow and quiet enough to fade under the unending sleet. Water dripped over the gloves and soaked into Clare’s sleeves. She shivered. Dorran tapped her wrist, telling her to let go, but she shook her head.
The hollows continued to creep over their shelter. She felt their pressure, sometimes, as they stepped over her fingers. When they moved, they shook drops of water free. Sometimes, they hissed. Sometimes, they chattered. She heard fingers prying around the edges of the dome again, but with the extra weight, they couldn’t get under.
Her head drooped. She was too tired to cry. Too tired to think. Instead of listening to the monsters outside, she tried to listen to her silent companion. His soft breaths. The near-inaudible rustle of his coat’s collar as he tilted his head. She could hear when he swallowed. That was enough to focus on.
Minutes blended together like a fractured nightmare. The scratching noises were trying to send her mad. They burrowed through her head, digging in under her nerves, winding her up.
Dorran released his grip on the wire beside her. He tapped her chin lightly to get her attention. She opened her eyes.
Inside, the dome was so dark that she could no longer see Dorran’s face. And, she realised, the noises outside had faded. Not just the hollows, but the sleet, as well.
She released her hold on the mesh. Her arm muscles screamed as she lowered them, but she bit her tongue to stay silent. There was no guarantee that the hollows were gone. Any noise, no matter how small, might revive the attack.
Dorran moved as well as he could in the cramped space. He scraped away some of the snow at the dome’s edge and bent over, face to the icy ground, and looked through the gap. Then he put his head near Clare’s to whisper into her ear. “Can you run?”
“I think so.”
“Get ready. Leave the sled, if you have to. We can get it later.”
She felt him lift his arms again, this time to brace against the dome’s ceiling. He pushed. A cracking noise echoed around them. Dorran froze, waiting, and when the silence persisted, he pushed again. An inch at a time, the dome lifted. The structure was built to be heavy, but not so heavy that it should have resisted him so much. Clare lifted her arms and pushed, too. More cracking noises surrounded them. Ice, she suspected. The sleet had frozen over their shelter.
The edge of the red fabric lifted from the snow, and wan light rushed in. The day had entered twilight. If they stayed any longer, night would fall. They continued pushing, straining against the weight, to lift the structure. It broke free with a snap and tipped away.
Clare pressed a hand to her throat. Hollows were scattered around them. The sleet had coated the monsters. It encased their warped bodies, freezing them into horrible, deformed ice sculptures. She recognised the one closest to her feet, the one with too many teeth. Four of its fingers had been cut off, leaving raw red stumps. Clare stared at it, revolted but unable to look away. It was perfectly preserved under a solid inch of glassy ice. Its wide eyes stared into the distance. Then they swivelled to fix on Clare.
She stumbled back and felt for Dorran’s arm. “They’re not dead,” she whispered.
“Let’s go.” Dorran left the dome where it was, encased in ice and fused to three of the hollows. They found the sled’s rope and strained to free their precious luggage from its own ice prison. The sled jolted free with a crunch, and they both staggered then regained their feet. Clare kept her eyes fixed forward, even when she thought she heard the crunch of fracturing ice echo through the field.
The sleet had left their path slippery, and each step was an ordeal. But the house grew closer with every passing breath, and just as the sun vanished over the horizon, they stepped under the arching front porch.
“You first,” Dorran said and picked up Clare. He lifted her while she scrabbled up the snowbank at the front door, then she tumbled inside the house.
The drop jarred sore muscles, but she moved to the side to make way for Dorran. A moment later, the sled came over the rise. The two travel cases broke free as they slid across the floor, followed closely by Dorran. He slammed the doors closed behind them.
The house was too dark for them to see well. She heard Dorran feeling for matches along the side table. The sound his gloves made felt too close to the grasping, scratching noises the hollows made, and Clare shuddered. Then a match flared, and pale golden light spread around them.
“Well, we are home.” Dorran looked exhausted. Spots of blood coated his clothes. Dark circles filled the spaces around his eyes, enhanced by his pale skin. But he still smiled. He reached out a hand, and Clare took it. Together, they shuffled towards their final obstacle: the flight of stairs leading to their room.
Chapter Eleven
Clare sat in the wingback chair in front of the fire. She rested her cheek on the fabric, staring into the flames, her mind wandering in and out of conscious thought.
Where’s Dorran?
She blinked. She remembered walking up the stairs. She remembered him feeding wood into the fire and helping her peel off the damp layers of clothes. Then there was a cloth soaked in warm water, running over her arms and her face, cleaning her. After that was a daze, but she thought he’d said something as she fell to sleep. “I will be back soon.”
Clare frowned. He shouldn’t be wandering the house alone, especially that night. He would be exhausted; he wouldn’t be able to defend himself properly if something attacked.
She rose, and the muscles in her legs screamed. She’d made it two steps towards the door before it creaked open, and Clare sank back into her chair with a sigh of relief.
Dorran carried bowls of food and a bottle tucked under one arm. She thought he might have washed. He wore the green knit top she was fond of, and his wet hair was brushed back from his face.
“Here,” he murmured, placing a bowl in her lap. “You must be starved.”
It was warm and smelt good. What was more, it wasn’t soup. Clare stared in wonder at a generous portion of cheesy pasta.
“I didn’t realise you were cooking dinner,” Clare said. “Aren’t you tired?”
He settled into the chair beside her, cradling his own bowl. “I thought we should enjoy the rewards of our mission. I hope you don’t mind; I opened your cases.”
“No, I’m glad.” She picked up the spoon and scooped some of the pasta into her mouth. “Oh, this is good. Sorry, Dorran, I know you put so much effort into the soups—”
He chuckled as he licked his spoon. “But we were both thoroughly sick of them.”
Clare was ravenous, and the food, so tasty and rich compared to the watery vegetable blends they had been living off, made her want to shovel it into her mouth until she couldn’t fit any more. But she paced herself, trying to savour it and not make herself sick. “So much has happened since I left home, I can’t remember what I packed. Or how much I packed. Will it be enough?”
“Yes. We should be comfortably set until the garden is ready for harvest. Pastas, rice, tinned sauces, tinned fruit. You did well.”
It was a ridiculous thing to be proud over, but she felt herself turning pink at his praise. “At least the trip was worth it.”
“We made it back in one piece. I do count that as a success.”
Clare laughed. But at the same time, the images returned: the creatures, frozen under their layers of ice, still alive, still watching. The blood. The way they had swarmed over Clare and Dorran as though willing to bury them alive.
Getting to the road had been nearly impossible, and that was only an hour away. She couldn’t imagine how they could go farther. Simply walking to the forest’s end would take at least four hours, and they would probably need to go much farther than that to fi
nd any kind of transport. Beth might as well be on another continent.
“I got something to celebrate with.” Dorran put his bowl aside and picked up the bottle of wine. “I hope you won’t mind drinking out of mugs.”
Clare realised her face had fallen, and she tried to put some cheer back into it. “That’s my favourite way to drink wine.”
He used the end of his spoon to force the cork into the bottle and half-filled two of the mugs. Clare took hers gratefully. The wine would at least help chase off some of the melancholy. Dorran was right—they’d gotten back alive and mostly unharmed, and that was as much of a success as they could ask for. The wine burnt as it went down, and the sweetness lingered. “This is nice.”
“It’s merlot,” Dorran said. “We have owned this bottle for decades, but when it was bought, it was worth nearly six thousand.”
Clare choked on it and pressed the back of her hand over her mouth. “For wine?”
“For prestige more than the drink, I think.” Dorran laughed. “My family was passionate about their collection. The staff drank cheap wines, and I liked them just as much. But I wanted you to have something nice tonight.”
“Well, it’s by far the most expensive thing I’ve put in my body.” She smiled down at the mug. Then a thought occurred. “Did you have to go into the cellar for it?”
“Only briefly.”
“Hah. It really doesn’t bother you, does it? I’d rather drink water for the rest of my life than go back down there again.” She pressed her lips together. “But thank you.”
Dorran’s smile was warm. For a moment, Clare was enraptured, enjoying the way he looked at her. Then he took a slow breath, his thumb tracing around the edge of his cup. “I think I know how to reach your sister.”
Her heart missed a beat. She stared, food and wine forgotten.
Dorran reached into his pocket and took out a small black shape. “While we were getting the supplies, I had a brief look at your car. And I found this in the ignition.”