Voices in the Snow

by Darcy Coates

He chuckled. “It will be a little warm. But the vent will make sure the lake bears the worst of the fire.”

  Imagining the sunken hollow floating through the heated lake like some kind of unnatural stew, she scrunched her nose. Then another thought crept into her mind. “Dorran, are you okay?”

  “Of course. Nothing worse than a few scratches and bruises.”

  “I mean…” She squirmed an inch closer. “Last night. Your mother. It… was a lot to have to see.”

  Dorran was quiet for a moment then said, “I am at peace with it.”

  His eyes looked sad, and Clare’s heart ached for him. She tightened her hand around his as she struggled to find words that might help. “I know you don’t like to show when you’re hurting. Or afraid. Or sad. You were never allowed to be those things, I guess. But sometimes it helps to talk. If you don’t want to, I won’t push, but I’m here when you’re ready, and…” It felt strange to say something that seemed so obvious to her, but she thought Dorran needed to hear it. “I… I won’t hurt you.”

  His shell cracked. The sadness spread from his eyes to flow across all of his features, and he clenched his teeth. He took her hand in both of his, holding it and kissing it as though it were a lifeline. The moment passed, and his face cleared, though his breathing was rough.

  “You are good to me.” He kissed her hand again. “I… I would rather not talk about her. She hurt you. But she is gone now. I want to spend my life walking forward, not looking over my shoulder.”

  She smiled. “I can understand that.”

  “We have a future ahead of us. And… and I would like to spend it with you.” He was struggling to meet her eyes, battling caution, fighting to lower the walls for her.

  Clare moved a little nearer to him, closing the gap between them. “I like the sound of that. Our life might not be very normal, after what happened to the world. But we’ll be together.”

  “We will,” he promised as a smile grew. “And that is more than enough.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Two days later

  Clare stood by the kitchen’s sink as she washed and dried their plates from breakfast. The sky was clear that morning. She knew she couldn’t count on it staying that way—the weather could change in a heartbeat—but she was enjoying it while she had it. Outside, light glowed off a fresh field of snow, and the fire in the kitchen’s oven made the day feel warmer than it actually was.

  It was her first time out of her room since escaping the basement. She limped, but it was growing less pronounced. Dorran had cared for her, feeding her pain tablets when he thought she was uncomfortable and washing and redressing her cuts. He’d wanted her to stay in bed longer, but Clare was eager to feel like she had control over her life again.

  Dorran had left her to collect more firewood. Clare found herself glancing towards the door every few seconds, watching for his return. There was no sign that any hollow ones remained inside Winterbourne. Even so, she didn’t like being separated from Dorran.

  As they recouped from their fight, they had begun to talk through plans for the future. They would need the food from Clare’s car. The garden was recovering, but not enough would be ready before their supplies ran out. How they would reach the car, though, was a question neither of them had an answer for yet. They occasionally saw emaciated bodies creeping through the tree line on clear afternoons.

  Clare had picked up a handful of broadcasts on her radio, but most were brief and lacked concrete information. One had been nothing but gibberish—clips of songs and discordant voices mixed in with static. It had unnerved Clare, and she tried to avoid it, even though it was the only channel that played reliably.

  Some of the other broadcasts had been useful, though. The cause of the apocalypse was still unknown, though survivors shared rumours like they were currency. So far, the only people Clare had heard about surviving the event had been driving along rarely used roads or had been living off the grid. That led people to believe that populated areas had been targeted deliberately.

  The hollow had unnatural strength and didn’t die easily. According to the transmissions Clare had managed to catch, humanity’s best hope was that the creatures would starve. It had been nearly three weeks since the stillness. Some people reported seeing hollow ones acting more sluggish than normal. Others said they couldn’t tell any difference.

  Clare was acutely aware of her own luck in being brought to Winterbourne Hall. The people she’d listened to on the radio were all nomads, moving from town to town, trying to connect with other survivors and hoping that the next place they chose to camp wouldn’t have a nest of hollow near it.

  She’d heard one report of a monster like Madeline: sentient, retaining its memories and personality. They didn’t know what made that hollow different than its mindless counterparts. Clare had a theory, though. Madeline had been intensely wilful. Clare wondered if strong, rigid personalities had a better chance of surviving the change.

  Clare left the radio on Beth’s frequency most of the time and always kept it close. Dorran didn’t complain. He seemed to understand that Clare needed to hold on to hope stubbornly, even irrationally, despite each day of static repeating the same message of futility. Hope was a rare commodity in the new world, but it was almost as valuable as food or shelter. Eventually, the radio’s batteries would fail, and Clare would be forced to give it up, but she wasn’t ready. Not yet.

  The door creaked, and Dorran entered, wearing a green knit top and scarf. Clare tried not to look as relieved as she felt. “Hey! Did it go okay? Nothing bothered you?”

  Dorran returned her smile, but it had lost the sincerity she’d begun to enjoy. “I went to the furnace room.”

  They hadn’t been to the basement since the fight, and Clare realised the bodies would still be there. She put down the dishcloth and crossed to him. “Dorran, I’m so sorry. I should have come with you.”

  He shook his head. “It was something I wanted to do alone. The furnace needed reheating before the garden grew too cold. And I also thought if the bodies stayed there for too long…”

  They would start to rot. Clare imagined the hollows’ already-nightmarish bodies writhing with maggots, and she swallowed. “Can I help… clean them up?”

  “No. I took care of two of them. The furnace is consuming the bodies.” He leaned his back against the table and folded his arms, his eyes tight. “But there is a problem. I only found two of them.”

  “You mean—”

  “My mother’s body was gone.” He lifted a hand then let it drop. “All that is left is a patch of dried blood.”

  Clare pressed her fingers to her mouth. She’d felt the bones fracture as she’d impaled the woman’s head. She’d seen the life leave her eyes. “Maybe the surviving maids came back for her and carried her body away.”

  “Perhaps.”

  As they stared at each other, Clare knew that neither of them truly believed that idea.

  “I will seal off the secret passageways,” Dorran said. “But I do not know all of them yet. Until we can be certain we’re safe, I would like you to carry a weapon. And I will try to never be far from you. Just in case.”

  Clare couldn’t speak. She stepped forwards and fell into Dorran’s hug. He pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. “Shh. We will be all right. I will keep you safe, my darling.”

  It seemed unfair that he even had to. Clare closed her eyes as she and Dorran rocked together. Broad hands massaged her back until the tension left her shoulders. Clare swallowed the anxiety and instead tried to focus on the good in their lives. They didn’t know Madeline was alive—not for certain. And even if she was, she couldn’t be as much of a threat with a metal bar through her head.

  “I will take care of it,” Dorran murmured.

  Clare tilted her head back to meet his eyes. “We will take care of it.”

  “Ha. All right. Together.”

  Clare gave Dorran a quick squeeze. “Are you okay?”

  “I… w
ill be fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I have you. And that is everything I need right now.” He kissed her forehead. “Just stay close to me.”

  “I will.” She slid out of his arms and turned back to the dried utensils. “I’m just about done here. Did you want to start on the passageways straightaway or visit the garden first?”

  “The garden, I think. It will need water. And some of the new plants will have started to sprout.”

  Clare had been looking forwards to visiting their sanctuary again. It was the best part of Winterbourne. Tending to the tiny, fragile plants while chatting with Dorran always made the world seem brighter and warmer. It would be good to return to their routine, as much of a routine as Winterbourne allowed them, at least.

  As she stacked the plates, Dorran came up beside her, using the damp dish towel to wipe down the bench. They were close enough that their arms grazed, and Clare smiled as she leaned into the touch.

  The radio on the shelf crackled. It had been running for so long that the static had become a part of the background noise, and the sudden change made Clare’s breath catch. She and Dorran turned to face the small black box.

  A woman’s voice floated out, distorted and tinny but unmistakable. “Clare? If you’re there, please answer. It’s me. Beth.”

  The End

  Keep Reading. The story continues in Black Winter Book Two: Secrets in the Dark