Beth had hollows outside her bunker. When they hear her, they come looking for her. But she 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?”