by Darcy Coates
“It is all right, my darling. Just rest.”
She pulled herself out of his arms so that she could sit at his side. When she tugged at the blanket, Dorran grimaced as the shirt peeled away from the raw skin. Clare felt her heart plummet. “Hasn’t this been dressed? Do we still have the first aid kit? Or—or any cloths, or—”
“Shh, you need not worry. They are not bleeding any longer. I will dress them in due course, but not now.”
He’s using formal language. He’s stressed. Clare’s head was fuzzy. Focussing was nearly impossible, but she made herself pay attention. Dorran had said they were in a safe haven. She remembered a slow, drawling voice coming from outside the bus, blinding lights, and the glint of a rifle.
“Dorran, have you talked to the people who run this place?”
“Not much.” He tucked the blanket around her a little more tightly. “Just to ask for water, and then they brought us to this room. They have left us alone since then.”
“How long ago was that?”
“A few hours.”
He spoke as though it was nothing, but the shadows around his eyes belied tiredness. He wouldn’t have slept since the night before they stopped at Mother Gum’s Nest. How long ago was that? A day? More? “Can you ask them to look at your arm?”
“They offered, but I declined.”
“Huh? Why?”
He gave his head a brief shake. “I will look at it later. Right now, I’m more concerned about you. Your fever broke after you had water, but I do not know what was in the tea and whether it might still be in your system. Do you feel nauseous at all?”
“Don’t try to change the subject.” She gave his chest a light poke. “Why didn’t you let them look at your arm?”
He ran his tongue over his lips as he glanced at the door. Simple and narrow, it was made of metal. She thought they must be in some kind of storage room. The shelves and clothing rack were empty, but once, it would have held new shipments before they were put out for sale. The mattress was probably a new addition, though.
After a long pause, Dorran said, “That woman and her children took everything of value. Food, water, fuel. I do not want to commit to a debt that I have no way of repaying.”
Oh. She suddenly understood everything. His reluctance to fall asleep and the fear in his expression the previous night—he had only stopped at the safe haven when he was forced to. He had adopted Beth’s mentality on humanity: they were a roll of the dice at best. And he had every reason to feel that way.
Before Clare had arrived at his ancestral home, Winterbourne, he had been trapped with an abusive, hyper-controlling family. His world view had been shaped by them, his defences honed, and it had left him with a fear of vulnerability that Clare was still working to break through. He was trying, though. He trusted Clare. He was pushing himself to escape the shadows his childhood had left hanging over him.
After leaving Winterbourne, they had encountered four groups of survivors. Out of them, only the Evandale research institute had kept their trust.
Ezra had tried to kill them. Beth had attacked him. And then Mother Gum…
After Evandale, Dorran must have been pushing himself to be more open. That was why he had agreed to stopping when they saw smoke. He had made an effort to trust, despite what his instincts wanted and despite his natural caution.
The betrayal had been cold-blooded. It was a special kind of cruelty to lure someone in with love and kindness before leading them into a killing barn. And now, he had been forced to seek out humans again. Strangers, not too different to Mother Gum. A community that opened its gates to travellers, welcomed them in with the promise of food and shelter. And then what?
She watched Dorran as he watched the door. He hadn’t let himself sleep, because sleep could mean death for both of them.
“Dorran.”
His eyes flicked to her, filled with fear, filled with love, saturated with the quiet need to protect. She didn’t know what to say. She wanted to tell him it was okay, that he could rest, that they wouldn’t be in any danger. She couldn’t promise any of that, though.
For all she knew, he was right to fear the safe haven. The Evandale Research Centre had been an exception. Secluded underground, they hadn’t lived among the hollows or been forced to fight for limited resources. They were essentially a bubble of old-world morals.
Maybe the rest of the world had gone bad. The surviving humans could be a mixture of recluses and extremists. A map of spiderwebs built by predators waiting for naïve or desperate insects to alight on them.
“I’m here,” she said at last. It was the only thing she could promise him. “Whatever happens, we’ll be in this together.”
He kissed her forehead, one arm moving around her back to hold her tightly.
The door creaked and clicked as its handle turned from the other side. Dorran stiffened. His hand moved to his thigh, where he still had his knife strapped, half concealed by the blanket.
The old metal door shuddered as it was pushed inwards. Their lamp was too weak to reveal anything except the edges of movement, so Clare reached for it and fumbled for the dial on its side. The flame grew as she fed it more fuel, and finally, she had a proper look at their hosts.
Chapter Ten
The man entered first. He was old in a wiry, tough kind of way. Creases ran around heavy-lidded eyes, and long, loose grey hair and a shaggy beard framed his face. Clare’s first impression was of a lion’s mane. He continued to hold his shotgun over one flannel-clad arm, its barrels pointed towards the floor.
“Heard you talking,” the man said, the country drawl thick and slow like a stagnated river. “Figured you’d be ready for some food.”
As Clare and Dorran stood, a woman entered behind the man, carrying a tray with two bowls of stew and cups of tea balanced on it. She could have been the man’s twin, except she was a little smaller and a little thinner. Creases ran over her features, and they bunched up when she smiled. Steel-grey hair cascaded down to the middle of her back, and her outfit was so similar to her companion’s that it could have been planned.
They were old, but in a completely different way to Mother Gum. That woman’s façade had been sweetness and softness, gossamer hair, and rosy cheeks. This couple had been weathered. There was no softness, just muscles from a lifetime of physical work. With their hair and flowing clothes, Clare was struck with the impression that they might have emerged from the sixties with ideologies that followed them for the remainder of their lives.
“It has beef in it,” the woman said, and a hint of motherliness slipped into her voice. “I figure you could do with some.”
“Thanks,” Clare said as the bowls were unloaded onto a table near them. As she moved, Clare caught sight of scars running across the woman’s collarbone and up her throat like lightning. They were only a few weeks old.
The woman tucked the tray under her arm and left, running one hand over the man’s forearm as she passed him. She left the door open.
The man cocked his head. For a moment, he simply stared at them, letting the silence hang, then he said, “You feeling any better?”
“Yes.” Clare glanced at Dorran. The wariness hadn’t left his expression. “Um, thank you.”
“Take your jacket off,” he said.
Dorran’s expression flashed vicious, all hard lines and blazing eyes. He shifted his pose, lowering his centre of gravity, energy coiling inside of him as he prepared to fight. The word came out as a snarl. “No.”
The shotgun rose, and his fingers moved to hover over the trigger.
Dorran didn’t back down. Clare touched his arm and felt the tautness running through him. In that moment, she realised, with shocking clarity, that he was prepared to fight to the death for her.
“It’s okay,” she whispered, squeezing Dorran’s arm. “He just wants to make sure I’m human.”
Dorran’s expression didn’t relax. He kept his eyes focussed on the stranger, a hard challenge, a threat about wh
at would happen if he moved any closer.
Clare’s jacket was thick and puffy enough to hide her figure. She pulled the zipper down and shucked it off. Underneath, she wore a tank top that clung to her. She turned in a slow circle, showing her sides and her back.
“All right,” the man said, and the gun dropped down to his side. “Just wanted to be sure. You two eat your food then come out to the meeting area when you’re ready. Bathroom’s in the hallway if you need it.”
The man stepped out of the room, and Clare pulled the jacket back on. Dorran didn’t relax until the door clicked closed, then he slumped back against the wall, swallowing thickly.
“It’s okay,” Clare said again. An awful idea had been forming, and it hurt her to voice it. “He was just being careful. I think… I think this might be the safe haven Beth stopped at.”
When the woman had passed them their food, she’d exposed the scars on her throat and chest, reminding Clare of the story Beth had told them. She’d stopped at one of the few safe havens in the region, and they had welcomed her until they discovered she was part hollow. She’d been attacked by the kindly older woman who had brought her food. Beth had escaped the encounter with a patchwork of scars, but it seemed she had left some, as well.
“They’re probably hypervigilant about who they let in now,” Clare said. “You’re not wearing a jacket, so they could see you’re fine. But my clothes were thick enough that I could have been hiding something.”
Just like Beth hid her spines. Thick jackets, loose scarves. She tricked us for long enough.
The memory was too painful. Clare blinked quickly and took up the bowls of soup to distract herself. She passed one to Dorran and stirred the spoon through hers, acutely aware of how ravenous she was.
“I am sorry.” Dorran sounded uncomfortable. “I overreacted.”
Clare grinned and tucked herself against his side. “I like knowing you have my back. Just like I’ll have yours.”
“I always will. That is a promise.” His smile was brief, but genuine. Then he glanced at the bowls of stew, and his expression darkened. Accepting food from strangers was how they had ended up in their situation.
“These people have guns,” Clare said. “If they wanted to kill us, they wouldn’t need to drug us first.”
“Very comforting.”
She chuckled at the dry tone then sobered. “I guess it’s still a risk. Everything is a risk. But I’m hungry enough to take a chance, especially since we don’t have food of our own.”
“Or enough fuel to find more supplies.”
She looked up at him, shocked. “We’re out?”
“The bus still drives. But the fuel light is on.” He sighed and ran a hand over her hair. “We will figure it out. For now, you need what energy you can get, so we will take a chance and trust you are right about the gun.”
She chuckled then tasted a spoonful of the stew. It was good and, as far as she could detect, had no concerning flavours. She ate quickly, relishing the chunks of meat floating in the mixture. The bus worried her, though. Petrol would be hard to come by, especially with nothing to trade.
Dorran relaxed, but he continued to watch the door. Clare wanted to let him sleep for a few hours, but she suspected he wouldn’t agree to it, no matter how tired he looked.
“Did you want to go out to talk to them straight away or stay here a while longer?”
He opened his mouth then closed it again. Clare thought she could guess his mental process. He wanted to stay where they were, in the dim room with the locking door. They were safe there. But he also knew it was nothing more than putting off the inevitable. If they sat in the dark, they would only soak in their fears.
Please, let these people be nice. I need to know that some good souls survived the stillness. I need to have a future in this world.
“Let’s go now,” Clare said.
Dorran took a slow breath then nodded. He helped her stand, and even though Clare didn’t need the assistance, she was grateful for his closeness. Clare nudged the door open, squinting to make out the area beyond. It was nothing but blackness, and her immediate thought was that the safe haven had been a lie and that they had been abandoned in some desolate warehouse.
Then Dorran lifted the lamp, and she began to make out the nearby clusters of clothing racks and a sales counter. Like she’d guessed, they had been left in a storage room at the back of a shop. Denim jeans and T-shirts covered with slogans hung from every surface. Someone had pushed racks aside, creating a clear path through the clutter to the door.
A figure loomed out of the darkness. Clare flinched away from it, and Dorran swung the lantern forward. It was only a mannequin, poised on top of a pedestal, one arm reached out towards them. Clare pressed her lips together as they passed it.
The shuttered main door was half closed so that Dorran had to duck as he moved under it. Their footsteps echoed off broad white floor tiles. The shopping centre had two stories. Beyond the second-floor balconies, a glass ceiling let in minimal light thanks to heavy rain.
All around her were shop windows and brightly coloured signs. Get cosy this winter, a homemaker store suggested. A gaming shop wanted her to pre-order a title with a now-passed release date. A sultry woman posed in a bathing suit, sprawled on a pristine beach. It was a shock to remember she had once been a real woman. Wherever she was now, she would not be looking so glamorous.
It’s large. Larger than the mall we stopped at with Beth. Clare turned in a semi-circle, examining the shining metal and glossy tiles. The walkway stretched in both directions, moving through a nest of stores and eateries. Their lights were all out, their windows dark, some with closed shutters. A shopping centre this large had to be in a well-established neighbourhood. The stillness had probably hit it early, before all of the shops had opened.
Already, the first hints of neglect were creeping in. A spiderweb hung from one of the imitation-marble pillars. Dust collected on the thick cloth draped over a jewellery stand.
Light and noise came out of an open entryway to their left. Clare looked up at Dorran to confirm he was ready, then she led the way forward.
The safe haven’s owners had co-opted a large department store for their meeting base. Stock had been pushed out of the way, clustered into the corners and stacked towards the ceiling, to leave a patch of carpeted ground free in the centre. A range of display tables and what looked like food court chairs had been dragged in to create a makeshift meeting room. The tables were covered with papers, maps, and a thermos and cups, as well as multiple lanterns identical to the one Dorran held.
The two closest chairs were occupied by the man and his wife. He kept his gun at his side, leaned against the table’s edge within easy reach, but his pose was languid as he beckoned them forward. “Here you are. Come and grab a seat. The other two members of my team will be here soon.”
Clare cautiously took the chair beside the woman, and Dorran settled next to her. The woman leaned forward to fill two new cups from the thermos. As she did, the man fixed them with a stare and said, “John. And that’s my wife, Patience.”
“Patty,” she said, in a softer and more melodic voice than her husband’s. “Welcome to West Hope.”
Chapter Eleven
The lamplight flickered over the paper-strewn table. In the distance, something echoed. Noise seemed to travel strangely in the empty shopping centre.
Clare tried not to let her uneasiness show. She was struggling to get a read on either of their hosts. They had been generous in their actions: the bed, the food, and the drinks. But the way John kept his gun beside him and the way Patty never turned her back towards them kept Clare on edge.
Dorran was still and quiet, watching her cues, the way he did whenever they met strangers. She was faintly aware that one of his hands was poised over the knife strapped to his side, though. She hoped it wouldn’t come down to having to fight their way out of the safe haven. She had no idea how she would even find the exit. Or how many other peopl
e might be living in the unlit halls.
We have to at least try to make this work. Show some goodwill.
“I’m Clare, and this is Dorran,” Clare said. “It’s nice to meet you. Thank you for letting us into your home.”
“Hm.” John shrugged. “Couldn’t have turned you away. You looked half dead. How’re you doing, anyway?”
“Better. Thanks.” She still felt shaky, and a headache lingered at the back of her skull, but both sensations were ebbing.
“Probably got a dehydration hangover. That’ll pass. And anyway, I’m not sure we could call this place a house, let alone a home.”
“We used to live on a farmstead,” Patty said, placing a cup each at Dorran’s and Clare’s sides.
A note of fondness grew in John’s voice. “We built that beauty ourselves. Twelve acres. Trees on every horizon. We had goats that kept the lawn trimmed for us.” He puffed out a breath that ruffled his beard, and the fondness evaporated. “Had to leave it behind. Indefensible. This place is all corporate coldness, but at least it’s kept the hollows out.”
Clare wrapped her fingers around the mug. Dorran didn’t lift his hand from his knife.
“This is a safe haven, right?” Clare asked. “Are you in charge?”
“Yes, and yes, I suppose. West Hope. Patty and I founded it with a couple other souls who are no longer with us. People come and go, but we’re always here, keeping it running for anyone who needs it. People like Hex and Alden. Come on in, you two.”
Clare twitched as she suddenly realised two figures had appeared in the doorway. The young woman had short, shockingly blue hair, and the middle-aged man was tall despite his hunched posture. The woman, Hex, moved forward first, narrowed eyes on Clare. “You checked her?”
“E-yup.”
Her eyebrows twitched downwards. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure enough,” John drawled, tapping the table. “She’s as human as you and me. Come and get your seat. Clare, and, huh, Dorran, was it? These two are on the committee with me. Between the four of us, we figure out how to keep this place running.”
