“There should be a funnel somewhere,” she said.
Dorran held up a white shape. “Here.”
“Great. Let’s get filled up and get back on the road.”
Dorran reached out to take the jugs, but Clare blocked him. She sent a pointed glance at his bandaged hand.
He raised his eyebrows in return. “At least let me carry some.”
“One. You may have one.” She offered it to him, and he chuckled as he took it. Clare carried the other two as they returned to the shed door.
Scrappy clouds were gathering above them, slowly choking out the sun that had done so much work to melt the snow. Dorran took his carton of fuel to refill the car while Clare closed and bolted the barn door. Marnie wouldn’t have liked it being left open. It was a sad gesture—too little, too late—but it was one of the few things Clare could do. A lump in her throat ached as she stored the remaining two cartons in the back of the car. Dorran finished filling the car and left the empty jug beside the barn door.
“Okay.” Clare lifted her chin and tried to shake herself free from the memories of being at Marnie’s house. They had fuel. They had a seemingly clear road ahead of them. No hollows had disturbed them. There was still a long way to get to Beth’s, but it was starting to look a little less daunting.
“Will I drive, or would you like to?” Dorran asked.
“I’ll take this stretch. You’ve been driving for a while. Have a rest. We can swap back later.”
As Clare rounded the car to reach the driver’s door, her eyes drifted towards Marnie’s cottage a final time. She would miss its peaked roof. The garden was dead thanks to the early snow, but she could still visualise how it looked in spring and summer, full of lush, stunning flowers and vegetables. She wished her last time seeing it hadn’t been like this, with its rooms silent and its windows dark.
Wait… those are boards.
Clare stopped with her hand resting on the open door. Her mouth felt oddly dry. In the dark windows, in place of the usual gauzy curtains, thick wooden boards had been nailed into place.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Dorran…”
He looked from Clare to the house and back. “What’s wrong?”
If she boarded the windows, she must have heard about the hollows coming. If she heard about the hollows, that means she survived whatever effect deformed people. And if she survived all of that… she might still be alive.
“I think… I think…”
He rounded the car and put a hand behind Clare’s back to steady her. His dark eyes narrowed as he scanned the cottage. “What do you see?”
“She was trying to defend the house.”
“Ah—the boards.”
Three weeks had passed since the last normal day on earth. That was a long time for someone to survive on their own. But we did. Dorran and I survived. Why not Marnie? She’s used to being snowed into her property. She has food stores and a well behind the house. Is it possible she’s still here? Is it possible she made it through the end of the world?
“I have to see.” Clare tried to step out of Dorran’s hands, but he held her back.
“Wait, Clare. What if she’s in there, but no longer alive?”
That was a very real fear. But Clare took another step forward. “I have to see. I have to be sure.”
“All right.” He let go of her and picked up his hatchet again. “Keep close to me.”
Clare’s heart stuck in her throat as she approached the door. Her mind was fractured. Hope of finding her aunt battled against the knowledge of how slim the likelihood was. If Marnie was still inside, she would have heard their car approaching. She should have come out to see them. And yet, the house stayed dark and quiet.
But Clare couldn’t give up. Not while the chance still existed, no matter how slim.
Her boots sank up to the ankle in mud as she passed through the garden. Marnie’s bright-blue door had always felt inviting, but it seemed less welcoming with the windows on either side boarded up.
Please. If she’s still here… if she’s still alive…
Clare reached for the bronze handle. A cord hung beside handle, and Clare knew tugging it would ring bells through the house, a symphony of cheerful little chimes announcing visitors. Instead of touching the cord, she twisted the handle, felt the latch click as it unlocked, then watched the door swing open.
The hallway was barely visible in the gloom. Dust gathered across the floor and the myriad of knickknacks perched over cluttered shelves. With the boards over the windows, only narrow slats of light made their way inside to pick through the shadows.
A bucket of nails with a hammer resting inside, leftovers from boarding up the house, sat to one side of the door. On the other side were two luggage cases made of faded purple cloth, sitting up on their ends, ready to be carried out the door. Fine dust lay over the handles.
Clare knew the cases. She’d pictured them in her mind a dozen times since waking up at Winterbourne. Marnie would have packed them, ready to be picked up, waiting for Clare to take her to Beth’s bunker.
But Clare had never come. The cases, unopened and untouched, were enough to confirm Clare’s fears. Marnie was no longer alive. Hot tears pricked her eyes, but Clare still couldn’t stop herself. She took a careful step deeper into the house.
She could picture what must have happened. Beth had called Marnie. She’d told her to be ready. And so Marnie had packed. She’d stood by the door, just like Clare had imagined, her luggage ready and waiting, staring at the long, empty road.
If there are two things Marnie hates, it’s raisins in her cakes and doing nothing.
When the car didn’t arrive, Marnie would have rolled up her sleeves and done what she did best: look after herself. She’d hammered the boards into the windows. She’d probably ensured her chickens were outside, just in case she didn’t make it through the day to give them food.
The quiet zones—the patches of lost contact that resulted in an area being infested with the hollows—had started in the cities and gradually moved outwards. Marnie’s remote farmstead would have missed the first waves. How long did she have? Two, three hours? Half a day? And what happened once it finally caught up with her?
“Clare—”
The word was a whisper in her ear. Dorran’s hand fixed over her shoulder and tightened. He began to pull her back.
Clare heard it too. Sounds coming from deeper in the house. Dragging. Shuffling.
No. No. No. Please, no, not this.
Something shifted at the end of the hallway. A narrow slat of light passed over it, glancing over a familiar floral blouse. Marnie’s grey hair, normally fluffy, lay limp against her head. Her head had flattened as though squashed. Bones, rounded and large, made her skin bulge out. Bones around her chin. Bones around her cheeks. And the largest bone, the one on her forehead, extended forward so far that the swollen skin half covered her eyes beneath.
Her eyes were the worst part. The lids drooped. They were bloodshot. It was as though their colour had been drained. But they were still Marnie’s eyes. Broken, damaged, distorted, but still Marnie.
“No.” The sound choked in Clare’s throat, along with her air. She felt dizzy. A ringing noise filled her ears. She couldn’t look away.