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.
“On top of the sled,” Dorran said. They had packed the rest of their equipment flat, and Clare exhaled as the motor thudded into place. She was shaking and sweaty, and she unzipped her top jacket. The day wasn’t exactly warm, but their cautious dressing had left her wearing too many layers for comfort. She took off her outer jacket and tied it around her waist.
Dorran bundled the cloth over the motor to keep its components together then tied it down with the rope. His movements were sharp and full of energy.
He feels it too. Progress. A way forward. A way out.
They took the ropes and pulled. Their feet sunk into the muddy, over-saturated ground, and the sled refused to move as smoothly as it had on the snow. Its runners cut up strips of grass and caught in every stick and rock. They were both panting as they cut across the field, towards where the driveway disappeared into the trees.
To their left, Clare glimpsed the red-cloth dome they had brought on their previous trip to the forest. The fabric had been shredded, the wire dented. The hollows that had been frozen around it were gone. There was no room on their sled to take the dome, so they passed it without stopping.
The pines’ shadows stretched across the field like jagged knives. Clare shivered as she approached the forest. In a strange way, it felt more alive than ever before. The branches rocked in the chilled wind, groaning, and Clare couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. They got the sled back onto the dirt track. It moved a little more easily through the mud, but Clare still wasn’t looking forward to the hike between the trees.
She turned to give Winterbourne one final look. For a second, she thought she saw something in one of the upstairs windows. A curtain moved, gliding back into place, hiding the thin, pinched face. Clare swallowed.
For a while at least, it will be nothing but a home for the hollows.
She pictured them scuttling through the hallways. Intruding on the parts of the house Clare and Dorran called their own. Crouching on the kitchen bench, long fingers probing at the whorls in the wood that Clare herself had traced that morning. Sitting in their chairs. Climbing the same stairs she and Dorran were so familiar with. The garden’s door was bolted, at least, but Clare knew they could find a way in if they really wanted to. She tried not to think about it. Instead, she faced the forest.
Dorran didn’t look back. That seemed strange to Clare. She’d only been in Winterbourne for a fortnight, but already, she felt reluctant to leave it. Dorran had spent his whole life there. She doubted that he could leave it—possibly for the last time, if their journey went badly—without any feelings of regret.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Hm.” He nodded but didn’t turn his head, not even to look at her.
She was struck by the sense that maybe he didn’t look back because if he did, his steps would falter. Leaving their security was already hard enough for him. He couldn’t afford to let sentimentality creep through the growing cracks in his emotional armour. Clare moved so that she walked a little closer to him, wishing she could do more. But they were entering the forest, and as the trees engulphed them, it was wiser to keep silent.
In the distance, something chattered. The crackling, bestial noise floated on the cold air. With the mask dimming the world, Clare’s other senses tried to compensate. She traced the noise to somewhere at their left. Not close. But close enough.
A grating wail echoed from their right. Like a damaged foghorn, it broke and faded on its last notes. She and Dorran increased their pace. Clare’s muscles were already aching. The sled jostled on uneven ground, its contents threatening to shake free.
Clumps of wet snow, sheltered by the trees, hung around roots and between piles of pine needles. Their boots plunged into deeper mud as the path turned downhill. It stuck around Clare’s feet, trying to hold her in place and making wet noises every time she pulled free. Hundreds of tiny streams washed between ancient roots, carrying away the slush.
A dead branch the width of Clare’s arm plunged from the canopy, smacking into the ground ahead of them. They barely slowed their pace. Dorran kicked the branch out of the sled’s path. As they passed it, Clare couldn’t stop herself from looking up. A bow-legged shape clung to the trees above them.
Not far. We’re nearly at the car. Then there is only four hours to Beth’s. That’s all. We can handle four hours.
Every fear and doubt that had plagued Clare during the last days rushed back in, redoubled. Will Beth still be there? Will the masks be enough to reach her bunker without being attacked? And what if the air is toxic outside the forest? What if we get ten minutes away and start turning into hollows? Will it hurt? Will I know what’s happening? What if I stay conscious after the change, like Madeline Morthorne? I couldn’t live as a monster… or stand seeing Dorran become one beside me.
Dorran was breathing heavily. She didn’t think it was just the exercise, either. The stress was getting to both of them. She wanted to talk to him, to tell him everything would be all right, to thank him for coming with her. But every second, the creaking noises around them seemed to be growing closer.
How many are there?
The mask was too thick, and the clothes were too heavy. Sweat trickled down Clare’s cheek. It itched, and she shook her head but had no way to scratch it. The lowest layer of clothes was starting to stick to her back. She didn’t think she could go much farther without resting. But if she stopped, the hollows would converge on them, creeping nearer, their wild eyes trying to see through the mesh.
Then all of a sudden, they were on the main road. Even without the snow disguising it, the entry came up unexpectedly.
They turned left. A figure stood in the middle of the road. Patches of hair sprouted from its body, the strands growing as long as the sparse hair on its head. It trailed from its arms, torso, and legs. Gossamer thin and straggly, it had already become tangled by mud.