by Darcy Coates
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The caravan’s door had been left unlocked, and it creaked as Dorran pushed on it. His flashlight ran across evidence that the owners had woken up to a mundane morning. The kitchenette had two mugs set beside the sink to dry. A loaf of bread, just barely starting to turn mouldy now that the ice had abated, had been left on the shelf. Its bag hung open as though someone were planning to toast another slice. A magazine sat on the pullout couch. The double bed’s sheets were tousled and unmade.
Clare wondered how their morning had been disrupted. A relative might have phoned to tell them about the spreading quiet zones, and they abandoned the caravan as they raced to drive home. Or maybe they had heard their holidaying neighbours yelling and stepped outside to see what the commotion was about. Or possibly, they felt the burning in their lungs as they stood in the very place Clare was standing, lounged on the couch, or reached into the bread bag for another slice. What would they have thought? That the air had turned toxic? They could have run outside with just enough sense of mind to slam the door behind them.
Whatever had happened, they were dead. And now she and Dorran were stepping in where they had left off, to sleep in the bed they had shared, to flip through their magazine, to deal with the bread they had left to rot.
Dorran left Clare in the caravan as he fetched armfuls of supplies from the back of the car. When he returned a moment later, he carried weapons in case they were disturbed during the night, a jug of water, food, and their blanket. He placed their haul onto the couch and poured out some water.
“Drink,” he urged, holding the cup towards Clare. “I’ll make dinner. Then we can sleep.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You are. You haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
She shook her head. “I can’t. I’ll be sick.”
An unhappy, barely audible sigh escaped him. “Very well. But please, at least drink some water.”
She sat on the edge of the bed and sipped from the cup while Dorran leaned against the kitchenette and ate cold stew from a tin. They didn’t speak or even look at each other. Clare knew they were fracturing, losing the loyalty they’d held for each other, but she was incapable of stopping it. She put the cup aside and wordlessly crawled into bed, facing the wall.
Her clothes were still damp from the car, but she was too tired to take them off. She coiled up, hands under her chin and eyes burning, as she waited for sleep to give her some reprieve.
A moment later, the mattress dipped as Dorran sat on its edge. He carefully, near silently slipped under the covers. A word ran through Clare’s mind, unbidden. It was a horrible word. A fearful, bitter one. Murderer.
She saw the blue door in her mind’s eye and heard the thwacks. She tightened her hands into fists as she fought with herself not to cry.
Dorran shuffled closer and, cautious, slid his hand across her waist to hold her. They had slept like that most nights in Winterbourne. Clare remembered feeling warm and safe, her back nestled against his chest, their legs tangling and his arm a reassuring weight.
Murderer. Her body stiffened as revulsion ran through her. She stared, wide-eyed, at the off-white wall.
Dorran hesitated, then the hand withdrew. He rolled over to face the opposite direction. The bed was small, but they slept as far apart as they could, not even grazing each other.
Clare felt drained, but sleep still eluded her. Minutes ticked by. She watched the wall and traced the moonlight’s progress as it gradually crawled over the panels.
She thought Dorran might be awake, as well. He was so still and quiet, she sometimes doubted if he was breathing. She opened her mouth to say something, to try to make it right, but couldn’t find any words.
She was being unfair. She knew that. She had asked him to kill Marnie—she’d begged and cried for it.
Murderer.
Clare had killed hollows too. She’d stabbed a metal pole through his mother’s head. He hadn’t held that against her. It was unfair to treat Marnie’s death as different. That didn’t stop it from feeling wrong.
She was a hollow. A monster.
But Clare had loved her.
Your aunt was gone.
But not completely gone. There was a little of her left in her eyes. Not much, and mostly instinctual by that point. But enough to be confused. Enough to be scared and in pain.
There was no way to save her. Dorran did the right thing by ending her suffering.
The phrase felt wrong. Ending her suffering. As though they were talking about putting an animal out of its misery, not a woman who had cared deeply and been filled with love for the world.
She would never be able to forget the noises that had come from the house. The sounds of Dorran beating her skull in. Clare knew he’d had reasons to do it that way. Knives were ineffective. They had no guns. Crushing her skull—thoroughly destroying it—was the only way he could be sure she was dead.
Murderer.
It took hours for weariness to win the battle over Clare’s mind. When she finally fell asleep, she didn’t even have the respite she had been longing for. Her dreams were full of images of Marnie, her bones poking out of her broken head and her body swollen as she shuffled along the hallway towards Clare.
She woke in a cold sweat. It was still early. Light filtered through the condensation on the glass of the small window over the kitchenette. Clare was cold. The other half of the bed was empty.
Clare sat up gingerly. She pulled her knees up under her chin and wrapped her arms around them. She was alone in the caravan. Dorran had left.
She imagined him slipping out of bed in the dead of night, going to the car, and driving out of the caravan park. He could be hours away by that point, either returning to Winterbourne or seeking out a new shelter. She deserved it. She’d been a liability for a while.
The idea hovered in her mind then evaporated. She knew Dorran better than that. He had never looked for an easy way out when things became difficult. He hadn’t abandoned her in Winterbourne when they had both thought she was going insane, and he wouldn’t abandon her in a caravan in the middle of nowhere.
If she went to the window, she would see the car. Still, she didn’t move. She was afraid of knowing. She sat, shivering, eyes burning, wishing she could go back to sleep but afraid of returning to the dreams.
What are we going to do?
Things had gone bad. It was like sliding down a slope—she was incapable of stopping and knew every extra foot she fell would make the climb back so much more impossible. She didn’t know what to do to repair their relationship—or if it were even possible.
The caravan door creaked as it opened, and Clare flinched. Dorran stepped inside, wearing the same impassive expression he had the day before. Steam rose from a bowl in his hands, and he wordlessly approached the bed and held the food towards Clare.
It took her a moment to muster a response. “I’m not hungry.”
Dorran stared at the bowl. Then with slow, unsteady movements, he placed it on the kitchenette bench. The silence held for a moment, every second of it excruciating. Then Dorran turned to face Clare and took a deep breath. “You hate me. That is fine.”
Clare stared at him. Dorran’s back was straight and his shoulders set, but one hand rested on the bench, as though he needed it for stability. His face was blank, but his eyes, the only living part in his expression, were filled with desperation. He took another shuddering breath.
“I don’t need you to love me. I never asked for it, and I do not expect it now. We don’t have to talk. You can avoid me—that is fine. But I need you to be well. To eat, to drink, to stay healthy, if you can.”
The knots in Clare’s stomach tightened, impossibly painful. She wrapped her arms around herself. She felt like she would fall apart if she didn’t.
“You are the only good thing left in this world. I cannot lose you. I cannot—I cannot do this alone.” He pressed his hand to his chest, and his fingers dug into the shirt’s fabric. F
or a second, the shell cracked, and emotions flickered across his face: helplessness and despair. “I will not survive in this world alone. You don’t have to love me. But if I ever meant anything to you, please, I need you to fight.”
Clare shook her head. Tears burned as they slid over her lids, and she didn’t know where to look or what to do. Reflexes kicked in, and she stretched her hands towards Dorran.
He responded, stepping forward, his arms wrapping around her. That felt right.
“I don’t hate you.” She mumbled the words into shoulder, and his arms tightened. “Dorran… I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m being horrible. I can’t think clearly. I-I—”
“I know.”
The word murderer resurfaced. It felt hollow. Just like he wouldn’t abandon her, he wasn’t cruel. He felt lost, like her. He had done his best to make the right choice, even when it was not clear. And he was scared. Not in a loud, obvious way. He held his fears close to his chest and masked them under steady reliability. But they were there, nonetheless. Fear that he wasn’t enough. Fear that he would make the wrong choice.
“You did the right thing.” Clare’s voice cracked, but she knew the words were the truth. She swallowed, trying to clear her throat. “Back at Marnie’s house, I mean. I’m sorry I reacted that way—”
“She was your aunt. You are in pain. That is human. It is the most human thing I can think of.”
In that moment, Clare no longer felt like she was sliding down an endless slope. Dorran had found her hand, and he was pulling her up. She was glad she could hide her face in his shirt. She didn’t want to meet his eyes. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“Please.” He was hoarse. “I only want one thing. Would you eat?”
He adjusted her so that she sat at his side on the bed’s edge, then he reached to the kitchenette and retrieved the bowl. Clare took it and stared into the warm stew inside. She didn’t know how he’d managed to heat their food that morning—it would have taken a lot of effort to build a fire in the dirt outside the caravan—but he’d done it. She picked up the spoon.
The stew felt as though it were choking her, but every mouthful seemed to spread relief through Dorran. When she was done, he took the bowl from her, set it aside, then gathered her into his arms. He kissed her forehead. It was gentle. Desperate. She leaned into him, resting against his shoulder, holding him as tightly as he held her.
“I didn’t expect this to be so hard,” Clare managed. “I was only focussed on getting to Beth. Four hours there, four hours back. We were supposed to be home by now. But everything—the freeway, the bridges, Marnie…”
“It is worse than you could have anticipated.” He sighed. “Myself, as well.”
She’d been so focussed on her own pain, she hadn’t considered how he felt. “This must be horrible for you too.”
His fingers ran over her hair. “Do you remember, on our last day at Winterbourne, how I went to search the passageways alone? You were so angry when you found me.”
“Still am,” she mumbled.
That brought out a cautious smile. “I am sorry. I wasn’t trying to exclude you from the work. Sealing the doorways was just an excuse. In truth, I was searching for the creatures.”
She lifted her head, frowning at him. “Why?”
“Because I sensed we were close to leaving our home. And I felt so desperately unprepared. I needed more practice. I needed to understand them. I needed to be sure I knew what to do and how to protect you before we left our shelter.”
She swallowed thickly. “I don’t know if anyone is ready to handle the hollows. You’re probably doing the best any person can.”
“No. I am under-prepared, and in ways I did not even expect. Every day, every moment, I fear I am on the cusp of a mistake I cannot recover from. You have been hurt. Now you have lost your aunt. And—” His voice caught. “I do not know how to make this right.”
She closed her eyes. The words tumbled out of her before she could stop them. “Your shirt has a stain on it. On the collar.”
“Ah. No wonder—” He pulled out of the embrace, his expression tense. “I am sorry. I had thought I—” He stood, staring about the caravan. His eyes landed on cabinet doors, and he pulled them open to sort through the contents. He found clothes in one of them. They sported bright colours and patterns and were sized to fit an older, plumper couple, but Clare and Dorran had only brought extra jackets, no change of clothes. Dorran pulled a plain green shirt off its hanger then slipped out of the top he was wearing, discarding it in the caravan’s corner. As he pulled the replacement over his shoulders, Clare caught sight of the bandages on his wrist. Guilt twisted her stomach. She’d forgotten about the bite.
“Dorran.” She held out a hand, calling him back. As he sat at her side, she took his arm and ran her fingers over the bandage’s edge. “Does it still hurt?”
“No.”
She squinted at him, trying to read his expression. There was a lot to see; the fear still lingered, along with nervousness and painful vulnerability. But the impassive mask had been shed. He was no longer trying to hide from her.
“I love you,” she whispered. “I really, really do.”
His eyes flickered with deep joy, relief, and adoration. He leaned towards her, closing the distance, and Clare kissed him unreservedly. She still hurt. But she no longer felt alone. And that made more of a difference than she had expected.
“Rest, now,” Dorran murmured, brushing stray hair out of her face. “We are safe here. You can sleep.”
She wanted to. Spending the day in the caravan with Dorran, knowing he would hold the nightmares at bay, hugging him tightly as feeling slowly seeped back into her… it sounded good. But the reality of her world wasn’t so simple. She braced herself against the despair that wanted to crawl back into her. “I don’t want to give up on Beth.”
“No,” he said. “I thought perhaps you would not. Then are you ready to return to the car? We can look for another way across the river.”
“Yes.” Smiling felt foreign, but not bad. “Thanks for not listening to me yesterday. I don’t think I could forgive myself if we’d just driven home.”
They looked through the caravan before leaving. It gave Clare a strange feeling; they had borrowed a stranger’s home for the night, and Clare didn’t feel right leaving it messy. She flipped the sheets back into an approximation of neatness and swiped their empty tins into the kitchenette bin. It was bordering on laughable when the caravan would likely never be inhabited again, but it made her feel better.
Dorran found a day’s worth of long-life food and teabags in one of the cupboards then stopped beside the wardrobe. “Anything here that you would like?”
“As long as it fits, I won’t complain.” Clare felt grimy, and she knew Dorran must, as well. She flipped through the woman’s clothes, looking for something that might be comfortable and practical. The dresses would be hard to run in. Most of the blouses were too light. She eventually found a knit top that she thought would wear okay, even if it was too large. They carried their prizes bundled in the blanket as they stepped out of the caravan.
Cold mist bit into Clare’s exposed skin. She couldn’t tell whether it was just an early morning frost or the temperature was dropping again. Her breath misted, and she was grateful for the warm breakfast in her stomach. Smoke rose from a stack of charred sticks where Dorran had heated their food.
They slid into the car. The radio still played its static. It struck Clare as an acutely sad thing that it had been sitting on the dashboard all night, still trying to make contact. She watched it for a moment before reaching forward to turn it off.
Dorran didn’t speak, but she could see the worry gathering in his eyes as his brows pulled down.
“It’s okay.” The words were painful, but she smiled through them. “If we couldn’t get through to her by now, I doubt we will. It’s easier not to have it there as a constant reminder.”
He nodded and handed the folded ma
p to Clare. Her eyes blurred as she blinked the tears back. By that point, she was almost certain they were just going through the motions. It had been nearly two days since she’d last heard from Beth. The bunker would be empty. But she still had to get there, just to know she had. To be certain. To know she’d done everything she could have.
In the distance, something inhuman wailed. Dorran stared into the mist that curled across the field. “It might be wise to begin moving.”
“Yes, that’s probably a good idea.” She traced lines across the map. “Try the second path across the stream again. The water might have gone down overnight. While you’re doing that, I’ll see if I can find an alternative.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Despite the cold, despite the sore muscles and stiff neck, and despite the implications of the silent radio hanging over them, Clare felt more like herself that morning. The man at her side was familiar and safe, not the stranger he had felt like the day before.
The car rocked across potholed ground, splashing fresh mud over its already-spoiled paint as they moved towards the river. Clare ran her finger across the map. She knew she had to find a way forward, but she hadn’t been in that part of the country in years; her trips along the road had always ended at Marnie’s house.
We need a high bridge. Not something low. Not something suspended a few feet above the water. A bridge with at least five meters of clearance.
The car slowed, and Clare looked up from the map. They had arrived back at the water’s edge. The river had subsided a little overnight, but not nearly enough. The sign declaring the bridge’s name peeked above the frothing water, its metal bent slightly by the force of the deluge. Everything else was still invisible.
Dorran turned to Clare, patient but waiting for direction. She chewed her lip as she traced lines on the map.
Wait… Marnie.
When Clare made her weekly visit to her aunt’s farm, she was greeted by three things: hot coffee, fresh cake, and gossip. Scratch that. Four things. Her cats always ended up in my lap somehow.