Chapter Thirty-Five
The noise blared around them, deafening. A second of piano. A second of a woman’s sigh. A second of what sounded like cutlery scraping over a plate. A second of a child laughing.
Clare shoved the radio into the massive bush beside the house’s front steps. The plant had managed to survive the cold snap, and its leaves were still thick and dark. They hid the radio well. She and Dorran turned and bolted.
The hollows initially recoiled from the deafening sounds. Clare had been relying on that; it gave them precious seconds to get out of sight. They ran around the fence, paying less attention to how quiet they were now that the radio was masking their noises, and didn’t stop moving until they were in the shadows of Beth’s front porch.
Clare pressed her back to the bricks, Dorran’s arm warm at her side, as they watched the street. Hollows crept towards the sound, scuttling like insects over the dead grass. Something heavy hit the awning above them. Clare’s heart leapt into her throat, and she flattened herself against the brick wall. Dorran’s axe shimmered in the moonlight as he lifted it.
The sounds moved above them, weaving towards the awning’s edge, then a hollow scuttled down the pillar to reach the yard. It didn’t so much as look at them as it skittered between the shrubs and towards the fence.
The radio continued to play its broken track. The sounds of traffic. A man saying, “Good evening!” Part of a song that Clare thought she recognised. All blended together into the static until it was a maddening soup of noise. Clare knew the human voices would be most attractive to the hollows. As they converged on the shrub hiding the radio, she turned to Beth’s front door and tried the handle. Like she’d been afraid, it was locked.
Dorran held up a finger. He passed her the axe, dropped the sack of food to the floor, pulled off his jacket, and wound it around his hand. He approached the nearest window and waited. It only took a few seconds for the radio to land on a noise that drowned out their movements: an angry foghorn. Dorran moved quickly, punching through the glass and scraping the shards away before the radio had a chance to switch to a quieter track.
Clare glanced behind them. One of the hollows on the street had frozen, staring in their direction. She held still, praying the masks would work. They did. The hollow turned back to the shrub.
Dorran jumped through the open window. A second later, the front door clicked open. Clare entered, then they closed it behind themselves, and Clare pulled her mask off to clear her vision.
The wood-clad hallway was barely visible in the darkness but still sweetly familiar. She knew the paintings on the wall, even if she couldn’t see them. Hulking couches in the living room seemed to be waiting for her and Beth to take up their usual places. It even smelt like home.
“Kitchen’s that way.” Clare swallowed around the lump in her throat and pointed to their left. “Spare blankets in the hallway closet. There are clothes in the bedroom, but only women’s.”
“That’s fine. I can continue to wear this. It is not torn, only in need of a wash. Get something for yourself.”
Clare went to the bedroom first. Beth was only a size larger than her, and they had the benefit of liking the same colours. Clare threw open the wardrobe doors. A need to linger, to see and hold the clothes, burnt through her. It might be her last chance to feel close to her sister, and that thought hurt. She blinked furiously. They had seconds, not minutes, and goodbyes were a luxury she couldn’t afford. She took an outfit indiscriminately and tucked it under her arm as she jogged back to the hallway.
She found Dorran in the kitchen with the pantry doors open. Anxious Beth always kept her home well-stocked “just in case.” Clare had also kept stores of long-life food, but at least she’d had a good reason. Her house was rural enough to be cut off from the shops in deep winter. Beth’s suburb never saw more than a dusting of snow.
Clare wished she could apologise for every time she’d laughed at her sister’s paranoia. Because that day, it was saving them.
Dorran had untied his bundle of supplies on the kitchen bench and was adding extra food to it as he searched for the first aid kit. Beth’s bunker had been well-stocked but lacked variety. They picked up extra pasta. Tins of sauces and fruits. Condiments. Clare found a box of chocolates at the top of the cupboard and couldn’t hide a guilty smile as she added it to the pile.
A knife block caught the light in the back of the room. She picked out one of the longest blades and tucked it into her jacket’s pocket.
Clare didn’t know how long the radio would hold the hollows, but she doubted it would be long. Just like they had at the barn, they would probe at the radio and either realise it couldn’t lead them to anything edible… or break it. Clare crossed to the window and tugged the curtains back. The radio, muffled, continued to play. She couldn’t see any movement.
She leaned close to Dorran and whispered, “I’ll search the bathroom. Keep looking here. See if there’s anything else here that might help. Torches or matches or anything of the kind.”
He nodded, and they split up. Clare followed the hallway into the bathroom and went straight for the cabinet above the sink. She pulled the mirrored front open and squinted at the contents. There was no first aid kit. Instead, a truly staggering array of bottles and cardboard boxes filled the space.
“Beth, you hypochondriac,” Clare muttered under her breath. She snatched up the bottles and turned them over, trying to read their labels. Medicine for anxiety. Medicine for headaches. Medicine for indigestion, dry skin, and oily skin. A box of antibiotics, partially completed. She pocketed that one. Sedatives. Stimulants. Cold medicine. A box of plasters, which also went into Clare’s pocket. Sunburn lotion. Earache relief. And a whole row of herbal complexes that Clare couldn’t afford the time to sort through. And that was only on the first shelf. She’d known Beth liked visiting her doctor. Now, she was starting to think the doctor had been enabling Beth more than helping her.
Clare closed the glass door and bent to see if there was anything underneath the sink. As she ducked, she caught a glimpse of something in the mirror. Clare froze, her heart jumping, and slowly lifted her head again to see her reflection.
The past few days hadn’t been kind to her. Her hair had become matted and oily. Her face was grimy, even though she’d washed it in the river just that morning. The knit top’s collar was crusty with dried blood, and threads were hanging loose from where they had been pulled. She looked thinner than she remembered. And she wasn’t alone.
A hollow stood behind her. Its back was arched, shoulders thrust back to jut its chest forward painfully. All of the bones in its body looked like they had been twisted and extended beyond where they could stand. Its arms flexed behind its back. Both knees turned in, hobbling it as it tried to shuffle towards her. Its neck pulled back, and its chin tucked in so that it could meet Clare’s eyes in the mirror.
She turned, trying to yell, but the noise choked in her throat. She raised the metal bar ahead of herself defensively. But the hollow wasn’t charging. It backed away with a short, shuffling step. The bloodshot eyes twitched as they looked from Clare’s face to the metal.
“Please,” the hollow rasped.
Clare’s stomach turned cold. Even as deformed as it was, she still recognised the creature. Thin patches of grey hair hung from its head. Its skin was wrinkled, its naked breasts sagging. And its fingers, contorted behind itself by the twisted bones, still held a wedding ring.