by Darcy Coates
She knew she needed to focus, to be ready, but she couldn’t think. Dorran held her, but he was white. She knew he was making the same calculations she was. How long can we hold off the horde when they come up the stairs? How long until our muscles give out, until we’re overrun?
She tilted her head back, staring towards the ceiling, and caught sight of the round window above them. It had a latch to open. It was large enough to fit through… but even if the drop didn’t kill them, the creatures would do the job soon after.
The fog of grief and anger swamped her head, clouding her mind. She closed her eyes, trying to think through it. The lowest step of the stairs creaked. Clare opened her eyes. And she saw their chance.
“The window,” she hissed. She got to her knees, facing the glass. The sky had grown overcast as a storm brewed, but the field of snow outside was clear of everything except trails of footprints. Every hollow in the near vicinity had been drawn into the shed. She pulled on the handle, straining against the stiff metal, and wrenched open the frame. Freezing wind blew past her.
“Clare?” Dorran’s hand rested on her back, but he stayed facing the stairs.
The hollows were climbing. She tried to guess how far up. A third of the way. Maybe half. Soon, they would be able to look over the loft’s edge and see her and Dorran crouched against the back wall.
Clare crawled to the only piece of nice furniture in the space: the broken set of drawers that had been rejected from Winterbourne. She prised one of the drawers out, crept back to the window, and hurled the wood through.
The drawer created a heavy thump as it hit the snow outside. Instantly, the scrambling ceased. The creaking stairs fell silent. Then from the ground floor, the chattering began again.
Dorran had understood her plan. He was already at the wooden stand, silently easing another drawer out. He held it at the window for a second as he gauged the distance to the first drawer, then he threw it. His aim was good. The half-broken wood crunched horribly as it hit its target.
The noises below became eager. But this time, they were rushing out of the building. The sliding door rumbled as they forced their way through. Metal jangled as they scrabbled to get under the barbed wire. Clare already had a third drawer ready, and as the first hollows appeared below the window, she threw it.
“Now,” Dorran whispered. “Go. Hurry.”
They darted around the bones to reach the stairs. Clare paused on the landing just long enough to make sure that the ground floor was empty, then she rushed down, sticking close to the wall and rolling her feet to minimise the noise.
The monsters’ stench stuck in the back of her throat and made her instincts revolt. But the barn was empty. She reached the floor, Dorran so close behind her that she could hear his breathing, and ran for the open door.
Behind them, the radio continued to crackle. The noise dug into Clare’s nerves. She wanted to pick it up—to try to call Beth—but there was no time. The distraction bought them seconds, at best.
The hollows had forced a narrow gap in the door. Clare turned her body sideways and slipped through, then she held out a hand to pull Dorran out after her. Cold wind wrapped around her. Ahead, the mansion was lit for a split-second by lightning. The metal door was a minute away at a brisk walk; half that at a run. They hadn’t collected their snowshoes—or their masks. There was no time to go back.
The snow came up to Clare’s waist. Dorran went first, fording a path, but even with a channel dug out, Clare still struggled to stay upright. She kept her eyes fixed on Dorran’s back and her ears tuned to the world behind them. The radio’s crackle. The barn door, banging as the wind tugged at it. The incessant chattering, clicking noises as the beasts circled back around the barn.
Not far. Not far…
Winterbourne’s windows overlooked the field, blank and cold, dispassionate to their plight. The metal door stood out of the stone wall ahead, tantalisingly close.
Something snatched at Clare’s heels. Dorran sensed it before she did; she’d barely stumbled when he turned, swinging the pipe. It made a solid, metallic noise as it connected with the hollow’s skull. Lightning raced across the field, closer, harsh enough to blind her.
“Go!” He shoved her past him. The door was less than ten feet away. She fought through the snow, digging through the same path her snowshoes had compressed an hour before. Another thwack came close behind her. She was at the door. Shoving it open. Tumbling through. She got her feet back under herself and turned to the opening.
Dorran, teeth bared and eyes blazing, swung his weapon a final time, then he leapt back through the gap. Clare was ready. She forced the door shut, hurling her shoulder into the metal to make its aged hinges work. Two heavy thuds shook her as hollows impacted with the barrier. She pulled the latch to lock it.
“Are you all right?” Dorran bent over, panting, hands braced on his knees and his hair damp from melted snow. Tracks of blood ran down his neck and cheek from where the barbed wire had bitten him.
Clare nodded, then slid down the wall to crumple on the floor.
Dorran shucked off his jacket and discarded it, then he sat down beside her. She stared at her hands in her lap. The hollows were scrabbling at the other side of the door, but she didn’t care. The adrenaline was fading, and shock moved in. She felt numb.
Beth.
The last thing she’d said was “Can’t talk.” Not even a full sentence. She hadn’t said goodbye. Hadn’t told her sister that she loved her. Hadn’t been able to do a single damn thing as Beth cried on the other side of the radio.
Suffocation. Of all the ways she’d feared her sister might die in this new world, she hadn’t planned for that. She closed her eyes and tried to remember the bunker. She’d only seen it once, when Beth had proudly shown it off after construction. It was a single room with an en suite. Not large. She could have crossed it in five steps.
How much air does that hold? How long until the oxygen runs out?
The bunker was a glorified coffin. She pressed her palms into her forehead and clenched her teeth. A repressed sob sent miniature shockwaves through her. All of a sudden, it was so easy to see her mistakes. She’d missed Beth’s call the previous day through stupid absentmindedness. And she’d been complacent, believing there was time for her and Dorran to troubleshoot a plan to rescue Beth.
“I need…” Her voice caught. Dorran sat, waiting, at her side. She tried again. “The radio. I need to go back for it.”
“Later. Not right now.”
A hot anger bubbled up in her insides. She squeezed her gloved hands together as the heat seared through her chest and throat. “I have to tell her… She doesn’t know… I didn’t tell her about the masks. She needs to know she can cover her face with a mask.”
Dorran rested his hand on her shoulder. “We cannot reach the shed right now. Not while the monsters are still out there.”
“She needs to know to wear a mask.” The anger was compounding on the grief, building until it was uncontrollable. “It could save her.”
Dorran’s eyes were sad. She hated the way he was looking at her. He didn’t understand. They weren’t too late; there was still a chance to save Beth if they could just reach the radio. But he sat there, mute, doing nothing.
Clare lurched onto her feet. She was dizzy. She caught at the door, fumbling for the latch, but Dorran’s hands wrapped around hers and pulled them away. “No, Clare.”
“She’ll die without it.” Clare hit his chest. He flinched but didn’t let her go. So she hit him again. The anger, the revulsion with herself, and the blinding terror boiled over until she thrashed, half mad. “She’ll die. She’ll die. She’ll die!”
He wrapped his arms around her, holding her back from the door, and took the beating silently. Clare screamed until her voice was hoarse and struggled until her hands ached. He wouldn’t let her go. When she finally slumped, exhausted, he pulled her in closer so that she wouldn’t fall.
“I am so sorry,” he whispered,
then he picked her up and carried her deeper into the house.
Chapter Sixteen
The fire crackled. Clare was holding a mug, though she couldn’t remember how it had come to be in her hands. Her insides felt like they had been scraped raw. Her throat burned every time she swallowed.
She hated the mug. It seemed so normal, so mundane. Like something a person held and sipped after a happy morning in the snow. Not the kind of thing someone got to enjoy when they’d let their sister die. She lifted it, ready to hurl it into the fire, but Dorran took it out of her hand before she could.
He silently wiped the spilt tea off its side and base then placed it back on the coffee table. Then he disappeared back into the room’s shadows. His expression was unreadable. She hated him.
No. No, you don’t. You hate yourself. Stop projecting it onto him.
The scratching noise had followed her inside. It made her wild, but at the same time, it filled her with a horrible sense of resignation. Scrabbling, scraping, coming from every direction, from inside her head, was always there, wearing her down.
This is the reality of the new world. No one gets to escape them. It’s just a question of how long you can last.
Tears ran down her cheeks. She was too tired to do anything, even cry properly. The universe had given her a second chance with Beth, and she’d ruined it. Now that the radio was gone—now that Beth was gone—she could think only of the things she should have said. Beth had needed to know to wear a mask, now more than ever. She needed to know how to get to Winterbourne. She needed to hear that Clare loved her.
Clare had been given the chance to tell her all of that, but she’d lost it, disregarding it with a curt, “Can’t talk.”
She rubbed her palms over her eyes to dry them. Beth had been right—there was no room for mistakes in the new world. She should have known better.
And now you’re pushing away the only other person in your life. You can’t rely on second chances with him, either.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice was hoarse. She turned in her chair and searched the shadows for Dorran, half afraid that he’d left the room without her noticing. But he was still there. He stepped forward, his expression drawn but not unkind.
“It’s all right. Do you want to try again?” He offered her the cup of tea. “It will help.”
She took it, holding it tightly to stop her numb hands from dropping it. He’d made her tea with some of the powdered milk from her luggage. She sipped and cringed as it hurt her raw throat. Then she carefully placed it back on the table. “Dorran, I’m sorry. I hit you—”
“Shh, it’s all right.”
His mother used to beat him. Clare shook her head vigorously. “No. No, it’s not.”
Moving slowly, he sat beside her in the chair. She reached up and ran her fingers across his cheek. He hadn’t cleaned off the blood yet, and it had dried across his face and neck.
He still smiled. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does. Did I hurt you badly? Are you in pain?”
“Not at all.” He tilted his head, one hand running over her hair. “Why is this upsetting you so much?”
“Because it should.” She shuddered. Because your mother hurt you. Because you don’t know how wrong it is. And now I’ve done the same to you, and you’re making excuses for me. “You shouldn’t ever hurt someone you love. Never. And I love you.”
His eyes were so full of emotion that she couldn’t stand to look at them. He dipped down and kissed her. It was brief but tender. When he drew back, his eyes were heavily lidded. “Take a moment. Drink. When you’re ready, we need to talk.”
She was afraid of what his answer would be. “What about?”
“Your sister.”
Clare still felt numb. But the anger was gone. Now, when she thought about Beth, all she felt was a desperate longing. She would have given anything to turn the clock back just by an hour or two. “I’m ready to talk now.”
“Not just yet. You’re shaken. Rest a moment; drink the tea. I’ll be here when you’re ready.”
She picked up the cup and forced herself to swallow. It was still hot and burned her throat, but she drained it in one go. She put the cup aside and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “Okay. Ready.”
Dorran laughed. “Oh, my darling, you are incorrigible. Very well. Come here.”
She rested her head against his chest as his hand stroked over her hair. He held her a moment before he started speaking. “How far away does she live?”
“Four hours.”
“In good weather? With clear roads?”
Clare squeezed her eyes closed. “Yes.”
“So perhaps six or seven if we are slowed down.” His hand continued to move over her hair in soft, tender strokes. “If we could reach her… would you want to try? Aware of how slim the odds are, aware of how much danger is involved, knowing that it could still be too late?”
She clung to Dorran, a lump blocking her throat. “Are you saying it’s possible?”
“Look out the window, my dear. It is raining.”
Clare lifted her head. She’d felt dogged by the scratching noise, unable to escape it even for a moment. As she stared at the tall glass panes, fresh tears escaped. It hadn’t been hollows after all; she’d been hearing the steady thunder of water hitting the stones and the slate roof. For the first time since her arrival, rain washed the ever-present frost from the glass. She rose, feeling like she was in a dream, and stepped towards the view.
The snow still lay heavily on the ground, but its crisp, rounded edges were turning into slush. The shrubs were poking through the white, and they stood out on the front gardens like beacons. In the distance, the dark ribbon that marked the forest was now capped with a deep, heavy green. Streaks of white still painted over the branches, but they were melting by the second.
“Oh,” Clare whispered.
Dorran stood beside her. “I noticed on the trip to the shed that the world wasn’t as cold as normal. It was enough that I needed to take my jacket off when I got back inside. And now, rain.”
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered. Rivers were beginning to form in the lowest parts of the garden. Thick, glistening drops fell from the roof.
“It’s the last thing we needed to line up,” he said. “We have the car. We have the motor. We know the hollows… not well, but better. Now, we have clear roads. If we want to risk it.”
She turned. Dorran stood tall, his broad shoulders set, his expression passive. But there was an undercurrent to his words that he was trying hard to hide. It took her a second to understand it. Dorran didn’t want to leave.
He’s doing this because I want it. He’s risking everything to make me happy.
She opened her mouth then closed it again. A war waged inside her. Dorran worked tirelessly for her; he tended the garden, prepared food, safeguarded the house, and was an ever-present reassurance if she needed him. It felt almost cruel to ask for more.
If Clare had been the only part of the equation, the answer would have been easy. But her wants and needs weren’t the only thing to consider. Beth was out there, trapped in a dark box, slowly suffocating. Or maybe dead. She’d made a comment about “getting it over quickly.” The idea that her sister might already be gone was like a punch to the stomach.
Clare pressed a hand to her forehead, trying to reel her thoughts back in. Can I risk Dorran’s life for a chance to save Beth’s?
“Be calm,” Dorran murmured. “Come. Sit. Breathe deeply. We are just discussing it at the moment. You don’t have to make a choice right now.”
She shook her head. “Why is it my choice? You’d be carrying just as much risk.”
“Because I have already made my decision. I will follow where you go. If that means staying, I will be happy. If it means leaving, I will also be happy.”
“That’s not fair. I know you don’t want to go. You’re only doing this because of me.”
He didn’t speak for a moment. Then he t
ook her hand and traced over her fingers as he talked. “I will not lie to you. I am afraid of what may happen if we go. But I am also afraid of what may happen if we stay. You are close to your sister. I heard it when you spoke to her through the radio. I see it in your eyes when you talk about her. If we stay, if we don’t even try, what will that do to you? Already, grief is crushing you… and I am poorly equipped to protect you from it.”
“That’s not your fault, though. And it’s not your responsibility to fix.”
“It is, when your feelings are entangled around my own.” His fingers continued to move over her hand, and he watched her fingers intently. “I want to take the best path for you. Until recently, that meant shielding you as much as possible from the hollows. But your sister made contact. The equation is no longer simple. I could preserve your physical health, but what would it do for your emotional health? Would you spend the rest of your life chained by the events of today?”
“Dorran…”
“I cannot see clearly. So I must leave the choice to you. Wherever you go, whatever feels right to you, I will follow.”
She tried to smile, but it was shaky. “My choice… You’re spoiling me. I’m going to turn into the most selfish person imaginable.”
“I don’t think you’re capable of being selfish.”
“Don’t underestimate me.”
He grinned and bent forward to rest his forehead against hers. Their noses brushed. His eyes were so close that she could see the individual flecks of colour in them.
“I love you, Dorran,” she whispered.
“And I love you, my darling Clare.”
“I want to go to Beth.”
“Then we will.”
Chapter Seventeen
Dorran found a map of the area in one of his relative’s studies. He spread it on the ground in front of their fireplace and weighted down its corners with books. He and Clare knelt over it, each holding a red pen as they worked on it.
“That’s where Beth’s street would be.” Clare made a mark near the top right-hand side of the map. On the paper, there was nothing but olive-green blocks to signify marshy forest. The map was decades old and out-of-date. It was missing streets and landmarks, but Clare still knew the area well enough to orient herself. The forests had been cut down and the marsh drained nearly two decades before to allow for Beth’s suburb to be built. “Don’t worry. I’ll know where to go once we get in there.”