by Darcy Coates
Clare felt nauseated. She glanced at Dorran. If he was afraid, he hid it well.
“Once we have the first load of supplies back into the truck, we’ll take a second to regroup. If anyone is seriously hurt, they’ll be sent to stay in the bus. Then we head out again. We keep making trips until the supply is gone or the truck is full or I call it quits.”
Hex fell silent. The rumble of wheels on rough road suddenly changed pitch, becoming smoother and quieter, and Clare glanced through the window. They were passing over a massive bridge. Below, a series of highways wove perpendicular to them, all choked. Clare caught a flash of a bone-thin arm that must have been at least two meters long, reaching out of a window and grasping futilely up towards them. Then the overpass coasted down again, back to ground level, and the grinding noise resumed. Clare glanced behind them to check the truck was still following, and she saw its headlights bobbing through the rear window.
“You all know how to fight hollows by now, so I’m not going to teach you to suck eggs. Just remember, no two are made the same. Some have multiple spines. Some can have their heads turned into a pulp without dying. Don’t take anything for granted. I find decapitation pretty effective, but you do whatever works for you.” Hex pointed at the blond man sitting at the front. “Part of Marc’s deal was that he would stay on the bus. If you’re injured during the recon, you’ll be joining him. Don’t open the doors under any circumstances. If you’re quiet, there’s a good chance you won’t be bothered. But if you are, just avoid the windows and try not to make any noise. We’ll be back soon enough. Just sit tight.”
Marc raised a finger, wiggling it slightly to catch attention. Hex broke off, eyebrows quirked. “Something wrong?”
“Just wondering what we do if the driver gets eaten.” He paused to drink the last of his stew. “Do we just get stranded at the shipping yard because the keys are down some hollow’s gut?”
Hex sighed. “Well, we’re going to be trying to stop anyone from dying. But, yeah, this is a risk we’ve dealt with before. The keys stay in the vehicles’ ignitions. Hollows aren’t smart enough to try to steal them, and it helps with a quick getaway.”
Marc nodded, evidently satisfied.
Hex shifted her weight as she turned her attention back to the crew. “The most effective defence against hollows is not being noticed, so we’ll try to do that for as long as possible. That means keeping quiet. Even if we’re attacked, keep the noise levels down. No war cries, please and thank you. The snipers are instructed not to fire unless they absolutely have to. If we’re very, very lucky, we might get through this without drawing much notice.
“If you forget everything else I’ve said, I want you to remember these three key rules.” Hex held up a finger. “One, follow my instructions immediately and without argument. I will be doing what’s best for you and everyone else involved. If you think you know better, tough luck—do what I say.” A second finger went up. “Two, do not break formation. I cannot drill this in deeply enough. Do not break your damn formation.” Another finger. “Three, nobody is being left behind. We don’t do any of that sacrificing crap that you might hear about at other safe havens. We’re not leaving until everyone is on the bus or confirmed dead. So, don’t go ballistic if you’re separated from the group. Just hold your position as best you can. We’ll come and find you.”
She lifted her chin, meeting every set of eyes, her expression full of hard lines and unspoken challenges. “Everyone understand?”
“Yes,” they chorused.
“No one’s going to argue?”
Another chorus: “No.”
“Good. I’ll give you a warning half an hour before we arrive. We’ve a while to go yet, so try to relax. Save your adrenaline for when you need it.”
Chapter Sixteen
Clare stacked Dorran’s empty cup in hers then tucked them under her seat. He slipped his arm around her, pulling her close, and kissed the top of her head. Clare took a stuttering breath, her insides a mess of hope and anxiety. Ahead, Hex slid into the seat beside the driver. Legs propped up and arms folded, she watched the road.
Gradually, muffled discussions resumed, breaking the silence. People were wiling away the time by talking about anything: work that needed to be done at West Hope, who needed a haircut the most, and theories about a popular book series that would now never be finished. The only thing no one discussed was their destination.
A drawling voice came from behind Clare. “How’re you two feeling this morning?”
Clare jolted and turned. John sat in the row behind her, one leg crossed over the other knee, his long grey hair hanging like curtains around his face. Beside him was Alden, head down, engrossed in a thick paperback novel. Clare had been so preoccupied with her own awkwardness upon entering the bus that she hadn’t noticed them.
“Hey.” Clare looped her arm over the seat’s back. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“They need the help. The guard team is the most important part of this, but almost always understaffed.” John shrugged. “Not everyone can deal with it. Physically or emotionally.”
John wasn’t young. Clare suspected he was on the verge of being too old for the guard team. But, then again, many people on the bus were: some were as old as John, and a couple looked to be teenagers. West Hope couldn’t afford to be picky.
“And Patience is back at the haven?”
“She sure is. We agreed that at least one person from the council needs to stay behind.”
Clare caught the unspoken implication at the end of that statement: Just in case the retrieval goes wrong. She thought Patience was a braver woman than she was to sit back while her husband walked into a nest of hollows.
John nodded towards Hex and lowered his voice. “You just listen to her instructions, and you can’t go too wrong.”
Dorran nodded towards her. “Earlier, you said we’d understand why Hex was on the council during the raid. I think I’m starting to understand what you meant.”
“Ha.” He scratched his beard. “You probably are. The silent world is a war. But not all of us are good at fighting. Patty and I, we’re pacifists by nature. We moved onto our homestead because of how petty and cruel the world could be. We didn’t have to deal with much unpleasantness when it was just us and our farm, and I thought it was the smart way to live. But now, I see that avoiding confrontation may have made those forty-odd years comfortably peaceful, but it’s done very little to prepare me for an actual battlefield.”
Clare thought she could see where he was going. “You’re not good at strategizing or fighting. But Hex is.”
“You got it in one. A checkout girl named Eugenia from a small town doesn’t seem like a likely war hero, but she has more guts and grit than many of the adult men I’ve met. Out of the four of us on the council, she’s the only one who’s any good at being aggressive.”
“She’s big into the psychology side of fighting, too,” Alden said. His eyes hadn’t moved from the novel, but he apparently wasn’t as absorbed into it as Clare had thought. “It seems stupid, all these theatrics she puts on. Dying her hair. Changing her name. That guerrilla face paint… but it’s what she needs to get into the right frame of mind, so I can’t argue. Too much.”
His lips twitched up, and Clare had the sense that teasing Hex was one of his favourite sources of entertainment.
As the hours passed, the shadows shortened. Clare had become used to spending days in her own vehicle, but the school bus was a very different experience. The seats weren’t quite as comfortable as she would have liked, and the constant chatter around her left her on edge. An hour out from the shipping docks, they parked in the centre of what had once been a community park. The two snipers, Bill and Charlene, sat on the bus roof and kept a lookout while people relieved themselves behind bushes. As they filed back onto the bus, they were handed granola bars and bottles of water. Hex set up the speakers to play music.
“Another psychology tactic,” Alden murmured un
der his breath. “To psych us up, I suppose.”
Clare knew he was right. The music wasn’t for distraction; the songs had all been chosen carefully. The first few were about standing up for noble causes, songs of justice and hope. The energy began to build with the following songs, growing louder and wilder as they drew closer to the shipping yard. For the last part of the journey, when the bus had to slow to a crawl and use the metal plough on its front to shovel abandoned cars out of its path, the songs were full-on war anthems.
The music worked. Clare could feel adrenaline running through her—the desire to fight, to be brave. Dorran was practiced at keeping still, but she could feel restlessness simmering under the surface.
Hex turned off the music then stood, feet braced against the bus’s rocks and jolts. “Ten minutes out. Get your weapons. Heavy defence for the guards, light defence for the movers.”
Dorran turned to Clare, alarm flashing through his eyes. “I didn’t bring any.”
“Weapons are stored overhead,” John said. He took a hair tie out of his pocket and used his fingers to scrape his locks into a ponytail. “If people have a favourite, they can bring their own; otherwise, we supply them.”
Sure enough, the bus became a hive of energy and movement as people stood and sorted through the racks above their heads. Down came machetes, hatchets, pikes, meat cleavers, and even a pair of garden shears.
“Best to get something long-range for your main weapon and a smaller knife for backup,” John suggested.
Clare moved out of the way as Dorran picked out his own weapon. He chose a hatchet, something that he had experience using, and tucked a kitchen knife into his jacket pocket. Clare picked out a hunting knife and fastened it around her waist. One of the passengers moved along the bus, passing out hand-made helmets of leather padding and wire mesh, forearm and shin guards, gloves, and thick scarves to the guard team. Dorran took his, and Clare helped him strap the forearm guards on.
“Do you feel ready?” she asked.
“I do.” He took her hand, but the grip was shaky.
Clare kissed his hand, one finger at a time, then held it against her cheek. “Be safe.”
“I will.” Warm breath ghosted over her neck as he leaned close. “You do the same. Don’t take risks. I’ll watch your back.”
“Two minutes,” Hex called. Beneath the war paint, her cheeks looked pale. “Remember the golden rules. Listen to me. Don’t break formation. No one gets left behind.”
The movers didn’t have anywhere near as much protection. Clare had been given a thick scarf and gloves. She guessed the lighter burden was to help mobility and visibility, since she wasn’t supposed to have to fight. It still seemed painfully risky to leave so much of herself exposed.
The bus rocked as it struggled over a fallen branch. Through the windshield, Clare glimpsed a distant, concrete building surrounded by blocky, irregular towers. The view was cloaked in mist, further dampening the haze-choked sun and turning the scene into something closer to twilight.
Then the headlights went out, and the scene disappeared from sight. Hex lowered her voice. “Keep the volume down. Remember, the longer we can go without drawing attention, the faster we can complete this job.”
Dorran pulled his gloves on. They were thick and leather, and Clare prayed they would be enough to keep him safe from the endless teeth.
The bus moved into an empty patch of concrete, and the engine cut out.
“Stay safe,” Dorran whispered and kissed her a final time before pulling his helmet on. “I love you.”
Chapter Seventeen
The guards stepped out of the bus first, easy to identify by their bulky armour and long weapons. The movers followed, most of them with a knife or a crowbar strapped to their backs but otherwise dressed lightly. Clare tied her scarf around her throat as she followed her team.
Marc, the only soul left on the bus, watched them with mild eyes as they filed past him. “Good luck.” A few murmured responses; most were too tense to answer.
Clare took a deep breath as she stepped outside. Chilled mist flooded her lungs. The group gathered close to the vehicles. The movers clustered together tightly, and the guards formed a circle around them, all alert, necks craned as they scanned their surroundings. Even under the mask, Dorran was easily recognisable by his height and broad shoulders. He’d chosen a position near the front of the group, close to her. Hex stood at the head of the guards, fist raised to keep them in place. Then her hand flattened out and beckoned forward, and as one, they began moving into the shipyard.
The air was thick and moist, and tasted of salt and seaweed. Within a few steps, the moisture began to stick to Clare’s exposed skin. She was grateful the movers didn’t have to wear anything bulkier. The humidity would make heavy lifting a struggle as it was.
They stopped near a stack of shipping containers. The first of the snipers, Charlene, threw her rifle over her shoulder and used the metal bars to climb the structure. It was a good vantage point. It had a view of the bus, the truck, and a large part of the shipping area. They waited until she had positioned herself at the top, lying on her stomach, rifle muzzle poking over the lip, before they moved on.
They stopped at another stack of containers, and this time, Bill scaled them. He was opposite Charlene but facing a different angle. It was a clever tactic. If they stayed quiet, the hollows would likely never find them, but the high ground gave them the perfect angle to take action if anything went seriously wrong.
They set out again. Clare had trouble making out her environment through the mist. The towers she’d seen from the bus were shipping containers, piled high and deep. The concrete building seemed to be some kind of office area. She couldn’t see the harbour, but she knew it couldn’t be far away. The briny air was too intense, and deep in the echoing silence, she could make out the faint melody of lapping waves.
The movers kept in a tight group, their shoulders bumping. They didn’t quite run, but their pace was as fast as they could go without losing formation. Shoes scraped across grimy concrete. Breaths, exhaled through open mouths, rasped around Clare. Her own heart was a thundering tempo that refused to abate.
A hollow one screamed. The wail, distorted by the humid air, echoed between stacks of shipping containers so that Clare couldn’t even guess which direction it had come from. She kept her head up and her eyes moving, scanning through the billowing mist, hunting among the black shapes rising out of it. Trucks waiting for their loads, carriages drooping as though forlorn, lingered around them. A forklift was butted against a concrete wall where it had crashed after its driver had fallen to the stillness.
Immense cranes broke through the mist like long brushstrokes piercing the sky. The concrete was stained with a myriad of oil and long-hosed-away organic matter, as well as the occasional patches of something more recent—blood, left from unwilling victims. Vast pools of it that had been lapped up by the voracious. Something skittered between shipping containers. Clare barely caught a glimpse of it before it was gone, leaving eddies of mist in its wake.
Hex led, her blue hair fluttering like a flag with each step. Dorran, two places to her right, glanced over his shoulder to check on Clare. He looked otherworldly in the distorted light and thick mist. Beautiful, even.
Something moved in the distance. Clare squinted, her pulse skipping. One of the cranes had come to life. The long bars moved, cutting across the sky.
Impossible. Not a crane. A…
An immense hollow. Tall enough to tower over the highest container stacks, its limbs were elongated into stilts, like a cousin of the creature from the tunnel. Its outline blurred by the mist, it had posed among the cranes, almost indistinguishable until it rocked into motion.
Clare opened her mouth to whisper a warning, but she wasn’t the only one who’d seen. A man to her right cried out, his voice choked, “Look!”
Murmurs ran through the others. Some of the movers stopped, and the guards backed up to maintain their circle ar
ound them.
“Quiet.” Hex’s voice was subdued, but cutting enough to break up the shocked voices. She raised her fist, holding them still, and stared at the shape.
The monstrous, elongated creature drifted away from them. Each step seemed to be in slow motion, the limbs rising then plunging back down. It was too far away for the sounds to reach them. The silence was disconcerting.
Hex held them there for only a few seconds, then her raised hand beckoned forward, and they began moving again.
Clare could barely breathe. The tension was echoed around her. She guessed most of the people at her side wanted to retreat to the bus, but Hex continued driving them forward.
The shipping yard became more cluttered the deeper they moved through it. They passed a stack of containers, and Clare tried not to shiver as the sound of dripping water reached her. Something crawled alongside their group, nearly invisible amidst the mist and shadows. Its long limbs let it glide effortlessly at their pace. It watched them, but it didn’t try to approach.
They were moving closer to the concrete building. Scraps of paper fluttered in the wind, their edges caught in cracks and under rubble. A truck rested nearby. It carried a container but had never left the shipping yard. They skirted around its front, and Clare bit down on a cry as an open hand slapped the windshield. The driver was trapped inside, half of his head gone from repeatedly beating it against the glass. What was left seemed to be rotting slowly in the moist air, grey flesh turning into a slimy, swollen pulp. His throat was gone, but he continued to beat his hand against the window, asking to be let out, inviting them to come in.
