Secrets in the Dark

by Darcy Coates

  “Do you remember the streets well enough to sketch them?”

  “I can try.”

  As she drew the main road and its dozen offshoots, Clare fought against the doubtful thoughts that wanted to intrude. Trying to reach Beth was a massive undertaking. Her sister might already be dead. She might have opened the bunker’s hatch as soon as she switched off the radio and welcomed in a wave of hollows. And if she hadn’t, the room was a ticking countdown. Clare tried to calculate how much air the box might hold a half dozen times in the previous hour. Half a day? Two days? More?

  Clare was trying to coach herself into patience. They would only get to Beth alive if they were cautious. But with the snow washing away and the car waiting for them in the forest, it was nearly impossible to resist the temptation to rush into action.

  The hollows hadn’t left the shed, though, and they still needed the motor before they could leave. Every half hour, she and Dorran walked down to a room at the end of the hall and gazed across the field surrounding the two sheds. Patches of the roof were visible. Grey, spindly creatures dripping with rain stalked around the buildings.

  “They’ll go back into the forest eventually,” Dorran had said. “There’s no food for them in the sheds.”

  But with the radio’s static attracting the creatures, Clare had no idea how soon that might be.

  She finished sketching Beth’s suburb the best she could. She was pretty sure there were at least two more streets she’d forgotten, but it made a rough outline, at least. The development held about three hundred houses. She tried not to think about how many hollows that could have produced.

  “We’re here,” Dorran said, drawing an X in the large block of green signifying Banksy Forest.

  “And Marnie is here.” Clare put the mark down before she could stop herself. Dorran watched her. She smiled sadly. “Not that she’ll be… anyway.”

  Unlike Beth, Marnie had no bunker. Going to her farmhouse would be pointless. That didn’t stop it from hurting, though.

  Clare cleared her throat. “All right, so this is the route I normally take when I’m visiting Beth. Most of it is a freeway, so it’s a smooth drive. The map is missing a road, but it starts about here and goes up to here.”

  She drew a line along the path they were to take. Marnie’s farm was about an hour from the highway, and she tried not to squirm as she effectively cut her aunt out of the journey.

  Keep focussed. Spend your strength on what’s possible, not on the past.

  “Is any of it at risk of flood?” Dorran asked. “I’m not sure how far the snow extends, but if it’s melting, low streets are likely to be unpassable.”

  “I’ve never had trouble with floods before.” She capped her pen. “But, uh, I guess the snows have never been this deep before, either.”

  “We will deal with it if it becomes a problem, then.” He bent over the map, examining it. “There are a few alternate routes in a worst-case scenario. That is good. I want to be as cautious as possible. We will pack food for several days. I believe you said the car had bottled water, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “We will not have time to seal the rest of the concealed passageways before we leave, like I had initially hoped. No matter. The hollows will have reign over the house while we are gone. We can deal with them when we return.”

  She bit her lip. “What about the garden?”

  “I have given some thought to it. Before we leave, I will fit as much wood as possible into the furnace. It will be hot. Much, much hotter than the garden needs. But the vent will funnel the excess outside. The garden tends to hold its heat. Hopefully, we will have returned before it cools too much. It has an automatic watering system. I never bothered with it since it wastes fuel, but it will be useful now.”

  “That sounds good.”

  Dorran took a breath. “We will not be able to leave tonight.”

  Clare had to bite her tongue to stop herself from arguing with him. The ticking clock was incessant in the back of her head, and the idea of not moving that day seemed nightmarish. “We won’t?”

  “I am sorry. I know time is pressing. But the day is nearly gone.” He nodded to the clock on the mantelpiece above them. It was past five. “The sun sets in an hour. It would be dark before we reach the car, and I need light to fit the motor. And we cannot even access the motor until the creatures leave the shed.”

  “Okay.” It hurt to agree, but he was right. After an hour’s walk to the car, he would need who knew how long to get the motor working, never mind the time spent preparing the garden and packing. There was no way to get it all done before nightfall… and they were still waiting for the hollows to leave the barn. She forced herself to smile. “First thing tomorrow?”

  “That is my plan. Tonight, we will gather supplies and rest as much as possible. We will need the energy for the trip.”

  They went through the house together, collecting everything they would need and packing it into one of Clare’s travel cases. They brought the final two fencing masks from Eros’s room: one for Beth and one spare. They also packed tins of food that didn’t need to be cooked, two containers of petrol plundered from the generator, and spare clothes. Last was an assortment of weapons: kitchen knives, an axe, and the fire poker Clare had become so used to over the previous weeks.

  Once they had the essentials, they debated over which other items might be useful to bring. Toothbrushes and soap. The first aid kit, filled with antiseptic, bandages, and painkillers. Rope. Matches and candles. Batteries. Two thick quilts.

  There were a multitude of other items that could have come in handy: the lamp, saws, shovels, and more protective gear. But even though the car could have carried it all, the sled’s capacity was limited. Every item they brought had to be weighed up compared to its peers. They briefly discussed the possibility of making two trips from the house to the car but agreed that just one was risky enough. Clare was relieved. She didn’t like the idea of delaying their morning two hours longer than they needed to.

  They laid the equipment out on the foyer’s tables. The melting snow bled through under the door, creating a shallow pool of water that spread across the tiles. Clare’s boots were leather and protected against the water, but she still splashed with every step. She felt like she’d fallen back in time to when Beth had let her jump in puddles at the park. The memory made her smile. Then reality pushed its way back in, and the happiness faded.

  Please hold on, Beth. Wait just one more day.

  It was growing late by the time they finished their preparations. Even though outside was warming, a chill clung to the house, and Clare was very ready to retreat to the heated bedroom. They stopped by the kitchen first to cook dinner. They would need energy for the trip and didn’t know how many chances they might have to eat on the road.

  Back in their room, Clare savoured the bowl of warm rice and thick meat stew. She was acutely aware of how quickly the following morning was approaching. If the plan went wrong, it would be her last night in Winterbourne. She was surprised to realise she would actually miss the place. Its ornate decorations and dim lights had never seemed very welcoming, but as she looked around the room, she realised she’d somehow grown to appreciate it, as if it were a snappish aunt who was just barely quirky enough to be remembered fondly.

  Dorran had washed the blood off his face, but the cuts still looked red and painful. She put her empty bowl aside as she went to fetch water from the bathroom. Dorran didn’t question her as she heated it over the fire, but he watched her curiously. She beckoned for him to come and sit with her. “Let me have a look at those cuts.”

  “They are not bothering me.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” She beckoned again. “Come and let me look after you.”

  He slid out of the chair to sit next to her on the rug, and Clare gently pulled him down so that his head rested on her lap.

  “There.” She brushed his hair away from his face, and he closed his eyes. The barbed wi
re hadn’t been kind to him. It had nicked his ear and left two more marks across his forehead. She dipped the cloth into the hot water and dabbed the highest scab. His eyebrows twitched, but the rest of his expression stayed serene.

  “Okay?” Clare asked.

  “Hm. Good.”

  He’s starting to trust me more. She dabbed gently, cleaning the cuts, and thrilled to see how he gradually relaxed. Dark lashes grazed his high cheekbones as she ran her fingers through his hair.

  “You’re beautiful,” Clare whispered. She’d thought it secretly a dozen times over the past week but had never said it out loud.

  Dorran’s eyes opened, then he burst into cackling laughter.

  “What?” Clare felt heat rise over her cheeks, but at the same time, his laughter was so infectious that she couldn’t stop herself from joining in. “What? Don’t laugh! I’m serious!”

  “You are not.” His expression was full of mirth, but as it subsided, adoration took its place. He stared up at her, unguarded, happy, and loving. “But thank you.”

  Beautiful Dorran. She kept that one in her mind but returned his smile as she traced her fingertips across the edge of his jaw. Not long ago, every smile and every laugh had been guarded. Very slowly, he was shedding that cautiousness. And it made her so happy, it almost hurt.

  Her hand drifted to the collar of his shirt. A hint of blue peeked out from under it. Clare’s smile faded. She undid the top button to see the bruise across his collarbone, and her stomach dropped as a rush of fresh guilt hit her. “Oh…”

  “Clare.”

  “I’m so sorry. I—”

  He took her hand, still smiling. “No. That wasn’t from you.”

  “But—”

  “My darling, I say this with the greatest affection and respect possible. You do not hit hard enough to leave bruises.”

  Clare bit her lip, sceptical, afraid he was making more excuses for her.

  Dorran’s eyebrows rose as his heavy-lidded eyes smiled up at her. “I wouldn’t lie to you. This was from yesterday, in the snow with the hollows. They put some force behind their strikes. Again, I say that with no intent to offend.”

  “None taken.” The tension fell from her shoulders. She let her hand move lower and undid another button. The bruise looked painful, so she kept her fingers featherlight as she traced around it. “Are you scared?”

  “About tomorrow?” He rested his hand over hers. His heart was below her fingers. The pulse felt strong, steady, and horribly fragile all at once. “Of course I am. I do not think I would be human if I wasn’t.” A pause, then, “… Are you?”

  “Yes.” The word, as simple as it was, cracked when she tried to say it. Moisture blurred her eyes.

  Dorran tightened his fingers over hers. “Do you still want to go?”

  This time, she answered with more conviction. “Yes.”

  “Then there is nothing to help by worrying. Come. Lie down at my side. I will keep you warm and safe tonight, and for as many more nights as I can.”

  He lifted himself off her lap so that she could settle down next to him. She lay on her side, one arm wrapped around Dorran, and he kissed her forehead before tucking it into the space below his chin. She closed her eyes and listened to the patter of rain beyond the fire’s crackle.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Four hours to reach Beth’s if the roads are good. More if they’re bad.

  Clare’s dreams revolved around the map she and Dorran had created. Her mind traced the route again and again. Four hours. We can survive four hours.

  She saw her hand running over the paper, following their path. A red X marked Beth’s house. Her fingers touched it and came away wet. Not ink, but blood, dripping from the bunker, saturating their map.

  Clare gasped as she woke. The room was dark. The fire had been allowed to die into embers, but for the first time since she’d arrived at Winterbourne, the room hadn’t turned cold.

  Dorran’s hand rested on her shoulder. He was already dressed, and his eyes were bright as he leaned close. “Time to wake, my darling. We are almost ready.”

  Beth. She sat up, her pulse leaping, and looked at the window. The black was deep, but in the distance, she saw the first hint of dawn.

  Dorran shook a jacket out for her and helped her into it. He kept his voice quiet, almost as though reverent of the early morning’s thrall. “Breakfast is ready downstairs. I have set up the garden. Now, all we need is the motor, and I did not see any sign of the creatures around the shed.”

  “You did all of that alone?”

  “Yes. You needed sleep.”

  She frowned at him but bit her tongue. It wasn’t a morning for arguing. If they were going to get to Beth’s, they needed to be united.

  They hurried down the stairs together, letting the gloom caress them as they worked their way towards the kitchens. For once, the dark didn’t bother Clare. She couldn’t hear the scratching noises. In fact, the whole house felt strangely calm, as though it were sleeping, waiting patiently for sunrise.

  Dorran had laid out plates of porridge and dried fruit on the table, along with steaming cups of tea. The kitchens were cold, and Clare was grateful for the jacket and the drink. They ate in silence.

  Four hours to get to Beth’s if the roads are good.

  Her internal clock counted down. It was ceaseless as it pressed Clare to run, but it refused to show how long she had left. Hours? A day? Or has the deadline already passed?

  She drained her cup, and Dorran took the plates to wash up. Clare fought her impatience and picked up a dish towel to dry at his side. It only took them two minutes. Dorran emptied the sink and stood there, palms resting on the edge of the metal basin. Thin-lipped, he stared at the suds disappearing down the drain.

  “Dorran?”

  He pushed away from the sink. “Let’s go.”

  They were becoming so used to the ritual of donning winter clothes that they completed the task before the sun breached the skyline. Dorran stood at the house’s open front doors, staring at the gradually lightening cobalt grazing the tops of the trees. Clare balled her gloved hands into fists as she stared at the sunrise, urging it on.

  Four hours to get to Beth’s.

  As the field gradually lightened, Clare was able to see the gardens clearly for the first time. The snow was gone. A stone courtyard spread ahead of them, before four shallow stairs led down to the dirt road that twisted towards the forest. The grass was dead, but the shrubs lining the first part of the driveway were green. Everywhere were the remnants of their winter: water collected in huge puddles in every available dip, sparkling in the brown grass and trickling between the cobblestones.

  “Okay,” Dorran said.

  They pulled their masks into place and each took one handle of the sled. Their equipment was stacked on the structure and tied down with rope. Clare couldn’t stop herself from glancing at their supplies as they dragged it down the stairs. The fear that they might have forgotten something—something important, something they would need—weighed on her. But it was too late; the time for preparing was over. They would have to survive with what they had.

  The sled’s runners scraped over the courtyard stones. Instead of going towards the forest, they turned left, circling around the building. It was surreal to be able to walk outside Winterbourne without wading through snow. The sheds appeared through the mist. Dorran gave a brief nod, and they dropped the rope as they approached the largest building.

  Even from outside, Clare could hear the radio’s static. It still blared through the building. Dorran slowed as they neared the door, one hand held out to keep Clare behind himself and the other holding the axe as he approached the sliding door. It had been left ajar.

  “Watch the field,” he whispered.

  Clare stepped back to check the ground surrounding them. She turned in a slow circle, scanning the forest’s edge, the stretch of dead grass, and the manor’s closest walls. She hunted for movement. She didn’t see any.

&nb
sp; Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the hollows melted with the snow?

  The idea made her smile. She’d become so used to associating the deformed creatures with the cold that this new, wet, dripping world somehow didn’t seem as threatening.

  Dorran stood in the shed’s open door for a moment, staring inside. Then he pushed on the door. The hollows had forced it off its runners, and the door screeched as he tried to move it. They both flinched. Clare held her breath, listening for the chatter, listening for the sound of scratching claws. None came. Dorran pushed again, this time keeping the pressure up until the gap was an arm’s length wide. Then he beckoned to Clare.

  The only light in the place came from the grimy windows. As she stepped inside, Clare’s stomach revolted. It reeked of hollows and mildew. The floor, swollen from melted snow, creaked with every movement. The lamps she and Dorran had carried the previous day were left discarded on the side table, burnt dry. Towards the back wall, the little black radio lay on the ground, its plastic fractured. Clare tried to turn it on and felt her heart drop as it remained unresponsive.

  “Take the batteries out,” Dorran whispered. “We will bring it with us.”

  Clare struggled with the back latch while Dorran moved towards the motor. Four batteries fell into her hand, and she tucked them into her pocket. The shed seemed too quiet. She could hear every drip, every squeak of wet wood, every rustle of Dorran’s jacket. He bent beside the motor, checking it and making sure all of the components were there. Then he nodded to Clare. She took one end of the sheet and helped lift.

  The motor was heavier than she’d expected, and they staggered under the weight. Clare righted herself and led the way back to the door, straining to keep the pile of equipment steady. They shuffled through the shed, past the cracked skull that lay beneath the loft, and after briefly scanning the fields around them, they moved outside.