Silence in the Shadows

by Darcy Coates

  A hand grabbed her leg. Clare kicked to free it, but it didn’t let her go. Her whole world lurched as she was pulled off her feet. Her shoulder hit the ground, jarring her, clashing her teeth together. Sparks of black ran across her vision. The knife ricocheted out of her hand. She was being pulled up. Pain sparked along her leg as she was suspended from it, dangling upside down.

  The many-armed hollow had her. She was held fifteen feet in the air, suspended over its head. The jaw made crackling noises as it dislocated, opening wide, then it began to lower Clare into its maw.

  A popping noise. Clare didn’t see the bullet enter the hollow’s head, but a spray of blood burst out from the side of its skull. The eyes swivelled then turned glassy. The hand holding her became boneless, and suddenly, she—and the many-limbed hollow—were plunging towards the concrete.

  She had just enough time to lift her arms over her head in a futile attempt to shield herself. She waited for the impact, the burst of pain across her skull, and the sensation of her head breaking open and her spine shattering. Instead, the impact came from her side. A blow that knocked her sideways, tumbling her, grabbing her all in the one motion.

  A familiar smell. Large hands wrapping around her back and her head to shield her. Dorran.

  They hit the ground hard, tumbling and rolling, the concrete scraping across Clare’s shoulder. The pain was all superficial, though. No broken bones. She held on to Dorran as they came to a halt. He laid her back onto the ground, eyes wild as he pulled back far enough to see her. A shaking hand ran over her face, then her chest, checking her for injuries. Then he looked up, and his lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl. He pulled Clare back to his chest and lifted her. The motion shook her as he ran, pushing past the snatching, scratching hollow limbs. The guns continued to pop. The harsh snapping noises cut down the bodies surrounding them. Then they were at the circle. Guards parted to allow Dorran through. He knelt, placing Clare on the ground with the other movers.

  Within the circle, a half dozen casualties were being tended to: cloths tied around wounds, jackets draped over their torsos. Alden was among the injured; his cheeks were white as a woman staunched a gash on his forearm.

  “All right?” Dorran’s voice was breathless and ragged. Clare wanted to ask him the same, but her own tongue refused to work. She just nodded. Dorran said, “I need a weapon.”

  Three of the movers held out their blades. He took the largest one, and before Clare could catch the breath to object, he’d turned back towards the hollows and rejoined the circle of guards.

  Clare pressed a hand to her throat, willing herself not to be sick. Aches and stinging pains dotted her body from a myriad of scrapes. The adrenaline hit of following Dorran had been brutal, and as it faded, it left her shaking and clammy. But the onslaught still continued.

  Somehow, Hex had managed to reform the circle after the many-limbed creature had broken it. With members missing, they no longer stood shoulder to shoulder—but they continued to fight. And the horde was growing thinner, Clare thought. The snipers were cutting down bodies before they could even reach the guards. It no longer felt as if they were being pressed in at all sides.

  Then the hollows began to balk. It was like watching a wave wash out. One hollow shied away, then the creatures surrounding it picked up on its reluctance and hesitated, as well. They backed up. They screamed and threw their heads back, angry and hungry. And then they began to scatter. In the span of just fifteen seconds, the field was clear.

  The guards were slow to lower their weapons. It felt almost too good to be true, as though it were some kind of trick. The overwhelming noise dropped to silence. The sniper rifles became quiet.

  Hex moved first, tucking her machete into her belt. She was painted red, the liquid matting her hair and saturating her clothes. She didn’t seem to notice the dark blood dripping across her teeth as she smiled. “That’s it. We’re out of the woods.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The guards relaxed. Some collapsed to the ground, shaking. Others went to their friends who had been injured.

  Dorran dropped to his knees beside Clare and asked again, “You’re all right?”

  “I’m good.” She stroked her fingers through his wet hair, pushing it back from his face. “Were you hurt?”

  “No.” He sighed, shoulders slumping. His dark eyes continued to search hers, as though he were afraid she would disappear if he looked away. “Thank heaven. You should have stayed at the safe haven.”

  She chuckled. Then she pictured what might have been if she hadn’t joined the movers. Dorran, dragged into the swarm. No one to follow him. No one to get him out. Nausea reared again, and she lurched to the side.

  “Oh, shh, shh, you’re okay.” Dorran caught her, bracing her against his side as he rubbed her back. His shirt was sticky with gore. The smell was thick and overpowering, but there was no getting away from it. The filth surrounded them, the pool of blood stretching out from the scene for meters. What looked like a barricade of bodies had built around the outside of the circle. It had formed as wave after wave of hollows piled on top of each other as they died.

  “Time to go,” Hex said. Her voice had returned to barely more than a whisper. She paced through the group, examining each party in turn. “If you can’t walk, someone will help you. Movers, return to your barrels. Guards, look for an injured party to assist, or an unattended barrel to push.”

  Clare stared at her. After all of that, we’re expected to pick up right where we left off?

  “Yep,” Hex said, speaking as though she’d heard Clare’s thoughts. The response was directed at half of the group, though, who all stared at her incredulously. “We went through that to get this fuel. And the hollows spent all of their energy on that swarm. We’ll have a few moments of peace, and we should take advantage of it.”

  She paused, and when the people crouched on the ground looked reluctant to move, she glared at them. “Don’t forget who this is for. Most of you have kids back at West Hope—either your own or ones you take care of. They need this fuel. Each barrel we bring back buys them another few days of safety. Don’t try to tell me it’s not worth it.”

  People started moving. Clare nodded to Dorran, telling him it was okay to let her go, then she pulled herself to her feet alongside them. Aches ran across her body from a dozen origins, and her ankle, twisted, stung every time she put pressure on it. But she returned to her barrel, a forlorn shape that had been left outside the circle and was now splattered with hollow blood. She put her hands on it and began pushing.

  Her partner was among the injured. Clare could see her ahead, one arm looped around a guard’s shoulders as she limped towards the bus. Dorran carried another injured guard. That left her alone to push, so she put her head down and dug for any energy reserves she had left. The barrel stuck to the gore as it rolled. Near-black liquid dripped off it as it trundled between the bodies. Clare passed the many-limbed creature, collapsed into a pile, its jaw still stretched open as though waiting for Clare to climb into it.

  There was one easier part about the second stretch of the trip, though. The formation had been loosened. Guards still flanked the movers, but they were spaced wide apart, and no attacks came. That meant Clare no longer had to stop her barrel’s momentum to let others catch up. Once it started rolling, she just had to give it extra shoves to keep it moving.

  They reached the bus in straggled groups. Hex unbolted the back doors and lowered the ramp. This time, she didn’t delegate the job of shifting barrels into the truck, but four individuals stepped forward regardless. Clare sat on the ground, forearms resting on knees pulled up ahead of herself, as she watched. Everyone was filthy. Through the haze of stress and shock, she still had space to think about how badly the bus’s upholstery would be ruined.

  The final barrel slammed into the truck, then the loaders stepped out, breathing hard. Hex gave them a tight smile then turned to survey the team.

  “We have a choice. And for once,
I’m letting you guys make the decision. We can either get into the bus and go home right now, or head back out there for a final raid.”

  A few scoffing laughs echoed from the group, and Hex raised her hand. “Hear me out on this. Any hollows that wanted a bite of us made their move during the swarm, and they’re pretty much all dead now. If we make a final trip, our path will be largely clear. Just a few stragglers, if that.” She patted the bus’s side. “And one more trip would be enough to get the last of the barrels. That buys us extra time before we have to make another raid.”

  The participants glanced among each other. No one laughed anymore.

  “But…” Hex took a deep breath and let it out. “That was brutal. So if you guys just want to go home, yeah, we can go home. It’s your call. Raise of hands for people who are ready to leave.”

  A few hands twitched, but none were lifted.

  Hex nodded. “And a raise of hands for anyone who is ready to go get the final batch.”

  This time, most of the group responded. Clare looked to Dorran, and he met her eyes. She saw her own question reflected back at her. She gave a shaky smile, and they both raised their hands.

  A faint glow of pride lit up Hex’s face. She nodded. “All right, then that’s what we’ll do. Anyone who’s injured is staying in the bus. And anyone who doesn’t feel physically capable can sit with them. Let’s get them inside first.”

  Out of the six injured parties, four of them were deemed too far gone to participate in the final raid. They were helped onto the bus, arranged into seats near the back with blankets and cushions to keep them comfortable, and given strong painkillers and bottles of water. Alden was among them, a scarf wrapped tightly around a gash on his forearm. He gave Clare a thin smile as she passed him.

  As she tried to step out of the bus, Hex held out a finger to stop her. “You’re staying.”

  “Huh?” Dorran had been following her, and Clare looked up at him for support. “I’m not hurt. I’m good for a final trip.”

  “No, no you’re not.” Hex raised her eyebrows, an expression that didn’t welcome argument. “You’re limping. Don’t think I didn’t notice. That makes you a liability.”

  “It’s not bad,” she lied. It ached, but at least she could still walk.

  “On top of that, you disobeyed the golden rule. You broke formation.”

  “Yeah, because that freakish arm-thing broke our formation first.”

  Hex looked as though she were trying not to laugh. “And if it was on our team, it would have been put on time-out, as well. I laid out my terms before this started: break any of the three golden rules, you’re out of the raid. No exceptions. Now sit down and chill. We’ll be back soon enough.”

  Clare looked back at Dorran, begging him to take her side. He bit his lip, half apologetic, half relieved. “I’ll be back soon.”

  “Traitor,” Clare grumbled.

  He kissed her cheek as he stepped past her. “Be good. Drink water. Try to sleep, if you can.”

  Clare sighed as he stepped back out into the concrete lot. Mist swirled around the group as it shifted back into its formation, guards ringing the movers. The shape was a little more wonky than it had been on the first journey. Exhaustion weighed them all down.

  Hex had promised this final trip would be safer, but Clare still felt the squeeze of anxiety at seeing Dorran go. Nothing was guaranteed in the silent world, especially not safety.

  I called him a traitor. A sudden rush of fear squeezed through Clare’s insides, turning her mouth dry. What kind of goodbye is that? What if that’s the last thing he ever hears me say?

  She pushed the bus door open, leaning through the gap into the mist-choked air, and called in a stage whisper, “Dorran! I love you!”

  A smile lit his face as he turned. He pressed his hand to his heart then extended it out towards her. She had his love in return.

  “Aww,” a voice drawled. “How sweet.”

  Clare jolted. She’d almost forgotten about Marc. The bronze-tanned, blond-haired man lounged in a seat near the front of the bus. Unlike the rest of them, he was unsullied by that night’s journey. Clare was coated in drying sweat, hollow blood, and grime. Every time she moved, she felt how gritty her skin was. By comparison, Marc was pristine, a leather jacket casually draped over his back, his high cheekbones and too-blond hair almost glowing.

  She closed the door a little more sharply than she intended and cleared her throat. “It’s been a rough couple of hours.”

  “It looks like it.” One eyebrow quirked as he glanced her up and down. “Not so cute anymore, are you?”

  Jerk. Clare turned away, intending to join the four other teammates at the back of the bus.

  “Hey, hey,” Marc called, laughter in his voice. “Come back. I was just joking.”

  “I’m not in the mood.”

  Marc turned around to rest one elbow over the back of the chair. His grin was lopsided. “I just want to know how the raid went. Did you guys get enough fuel?”

  “Yeah.” She paused partway down the bus, one hand resting on the back of a seat. “They’re making one last trip.”

  “Ah, I was wondering. So they’ll be done soon.”

  How can he be so impatient when he’s got the cushiest position out of all of us? Clare sank into the seat opposite Alden. The man’s drooping face twitched into a thin smile. He looked dazed, probably a mix of shock and medication. He held the injured arm close to his chest and leaned at an angle, back towards the window, head propped up on a cushion. Clare didn’t expect him to stay awake for long.

  Marc stared out of the window for a moment, then he stood and stretched.

  Clare narrowed her eyes at him as he approached the bus’s door. “What are you doing?”

  “I need a bathroom break.” He waved her away. “Don’t worry your head about it.”

  “We’re not supposed to open the door. Hex said—”

  “Are you really listening to her?” Marc chuckled again. “She’s a kid. Chill. I know how to handle hollows if any pop up.”

  The door clattered as it opened, and a moment later, Marc had disappeared into the fog, slamming the door behind himself.

  Clare sighed and reclined back in her seat. Her companions were all quiet, sinking into the painless sleep that the drugs afforded them. The atmosphere in the bus improved vastly after Marc left, but she still felt frustrated with his disregard for all of their safety. Even if the hollows had been weeded out by the swarm, having a human meandering around alone was still likely to draw them in. Clare had earned herself a time-out for a less-idiotic infraction.

  She closed her eyes and tried to relax. Her thoughts turned to Dorran. She hoped he was keeping safe, that he wasn’t too hampered by tiredness and scrapes.

  All of this for fuel. Who would have thought it would end up being valuable enough to trade lives for?

  Clare’s eyes popped open. Anxiety coalesced like a slime on her tongue. Marc had come as a guide, even though the convoy had no trouble finding or accessing the shipping grounds. He had specifically asked where the keys were kept during the raids. And his only questions to Clare had been whether the team was on their final trip and whether they had retrieved much fuel. They had—enough to make a man very wealthy in the new world.

  Clare bolted out of her seat as an engine rumbled. She threw the door open and stared into the fog. The bus’s headlights cut through the shadows. A silhouetted figure was poised in the driver’s seat, leaning forward, focussed.

  No. He can’t. He can’t!

  Clare’s mouth was dry; her fingers were turning numb. Her companions on the bus were all drugged. Even if she could call the rest of the team back, Marc would be gone before they managed to reach the bus. She could run to the truck, but he would have locked the doors. She turned, looking along the route he would need to follow. A narrow gate allowed exit from the yard. If I can block it, if can trap him…

  The machinery and debris scattered about the shipyard would be t
oo heavy to move. The truck’s engine changed as it was put into gear. Clare’s eyes landed on the bus’s driver seat.

  Yes. Yes, that would work.

  She leapt for the padded chair. They keys were in the ignition, as Hex had said they would be. She wrenched them, threw the bus into drive, and hit the accelerator. Wheels screeched. The bus lurched forward, and one of the injured in the rear seats grunted.

  Marc had a head start, but Clare was closer to the gates. She barrelled forward, reckless, turning the wheel to plant the bus in front of the exit. The truck’s brakes screamed. Headlights flashed in her face, and Clare raised her hand to shield her eyes.

  The impact jarred her. She doubled over, preparing for the stab of metal and glass, but none came.

  She looked around her fingers. The truck had hit the bus hard enough to scrape it sideways and crack the driver-side window, but its brakes had saved Clare from any more serious damage.

  Just outside the driver’s-side window, feet away from her, Marc sat stiffly in the truck’s carriage, white-knuckled hands clutching the wheel. A refracted glow from his headlights pulled out unnatural contours on his face. His teeth peeled back into a grimace, then he switched the bus into reverse.

  Is there another exit? Clare couldn’t see one, but the fog swallowed her view. The truck reversed far enough to detangle the two vehicles, then Marc threw open his door and leapt out. Feet crunched on the grimy asphalt. He was coming towards her.

  Locks. Locks!

  Clare felt across the dashboard, heart hammering. The controls were unfamiliar, and the truck’s headlights bathed over her, blinding her. The bus’s door was wrenched open. Marc pulled himself onboard.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” A fleck of spittle hit his lower jaw.

  The weapons were in the baskets above the seats, out of reach. Marc was blocking the door. The injured in the back of the bus stirred, disoriented but sluggish.