by Darcy Coates
“And I would not enjoy finding any of their bones washed up after a storm,” Dorran added. “So, the furnace it is.”
“Other people must be facing the same dilemma. There must be a thousand hollows for every surviving human. Or more.” Clare bit her lip. “Now that they’re dead, people will be reclaiming their homes… returning to towns that were overrun just yesterday… How are they going to adjust?”
“In gradual stages, I imagine. A home at a time.”
“Hmm.”
“We will not be trapped here forever. Do not fear that fate.”
Clare gave him a thin-lipped smile. Dorran had a knack for guessing her thoughts. She’d been thinking about how cut off they were, with no transport out of Winterbourne and no way to contact anyone outside.
“It might mean waiting until spring and then walking until we find habitation,” Dorran said. “A walk like that would likely take a few days. But if the weather is stable enough, it would be possible.”
“Thank you.” She reached across the narrow gap between them and squeezed his hand. “Until then, we have plenty to keep us busy here, don’t we? Returning the house to a liveable state.”
“Perhaps it will eventually feel like a home.”
“I’d like that.”
Once their tea was finished, Dorran bundled Clare in too many layers and escorted her downstairs. It was her first time seeing the foyer since the code’s activation, and she tried not to grimace. Dorran had removed enough corpses to create a path to the kitchens and garden, but the floor was still covered with dried blood and the grey substance, which had started to flake as it dehydrated. He’d removed the scraps of his mother’s effigy, at least.
“All right?” Dorran asked, watching Clare closely.
“Yeah. Fine.” She did her best to ignore the way the floor crunched under her shoes. “But… let me help you with this. It’ll do us both good if we clean it up faster.”
The gentle pressure on her back didn’t relent as it moved her towards the rear of the house. “I think the garden will do you a greater good.”
He was right. Stepping into the hothouse felt like having a weight lifted from her shoulders. Under Dorran’s care, the plants had thrived. They continued to spill out of their beds and tangle over each other in unruly, beautiful snarls.
Dorran stayed just long enough to settle her, then he kissed the top of her head. “Call if you need me.”
Bent over the plants, coaxing strangling tendrils loose from their victims and refastening them to their designated poles, Clare felt transported back to her earliest days at Winterbourne. She remembered working in the dark earth beside Dorran, barely daring to let herself trust him as they built towards their survival. It only made his absence more acute.
He was never far away, though. Footsteps moved from the foyer, through the chamber outside the garden, and down the stairs to the furnace room in unerring loops. Sometimes, as he passed, Clare would approach the frosted window and peek through. She could see Dorran’s blurred outline as he passed, dragging a heavy sack. He nodded when he saw her.
Once Clare was happy that the garden was on a good track, she left it and retraced the familiar path to the foyer. She stopped in the archway, admiring the transformation. With the bodies gone, the patterns of grey and muted, discoloured red looked almost like a deliberate, if chaotic design. The front doors were open, letting gusts of icy air roll through.
Clare tightened her jacket around herself as she approached them. “Dorran?”
“Clare. Are you all right?” He appeared outside the doors, and Clare couldn’t hide a smile at the sight. White flecks scattered through his dark hair and stuck to his eyelashes. He was flushed and breathless, a cloud of mist rising from his lips with every breath.
“I’m good. I finished with the garden and wanted to see what I could do here.”
“Ah.” He stepped inside the foyer and indicated through the door. Snow had banked up against Winterbourne’s entrance. He’d been using a shovel to dig a channel that sloped downwards towards the front yard. “I’ve been thinking about the best way to clean the floors. It will take days if we try to use buckets and mops. I thought, instead, to hose it down and sweep it outside.”
“Oh! I like that. It’s a bit less gross.”
“It’s not so much removing the problem as simply relocating it.” He shrugged. “The slurry will remain outside the door, frozen, until the snow melts. Though, if we are lucky, it will be washed away then.”
“Well, that’s a problem for tomorrow.” Clare laughed. “Where should I start?”
He grazed his thumb across her chin. “Maybe you should rest, instead.”
“Nope. I feel fantastic.” That was mostly the truth. The aches and soreness were still present, but Clare was feeling more like herself than she had in a very long time. “Come on, I let you win that last argument. This one’s mine.”
“Very well.” He was laughing. “Let’s make a start.”
They found two pairs of wellingtons in the kitchen, then Clare pulled her skirt up, tying it above her knees so that it wouldn’t be dirtied. Dorran connected a hose to the kitchen tap and ran it into the foyer, washing down the floor. Then, using two pairs of hard-bristled brooms, they swept the fouled water towards the door and into the channel leading outside. It froze not far past, creating what would probably be a deadly flat of ice for anyone who stepped outside, but Clare and Dorran had no intention of leaving Winterbourne in the near future.
By the time they swept the third batch of soapy water outside, the floor actually looked the way it was supposed to. The walls would still need washing, and the water probably hadn’t been good for the wood panelling, but Clare was pleased by the progress.
“Good enough,” Dorran said, putting the broom aside. “I’m ready for lunch. How about you?”
“Lunch sounds great.”
They harvested vegetables from the garden before making their way to the kitchens. The ingredients weren’t varied; it would take a few more weeks before any of the root vegetables began cropping. Clare didn’t mind, though. She’d survived on far worse.
While Clare watched over the cooking soup, Dorran excused himself and disappeared upstairs. Clare knew where he was headed: to check on Beth. She would have liked to accompany him, but she could guess why he was going alone. Dorran was prepared to lose Beth. Whenever they talked about her, an anxious note entered his voice as he cautioned Clare that they might not see a good outcome. He believed her life hung in the balance and that she might slip away at any moment. He didn’t want Clare to be present for the discovery that Beth was gone.
But Clare wasn’t afraid. She couldn’t even explain it to herself, but a strange confidence had formed inside her. She’d already gone through the loss of her sister, not just once, but multiple times. Now, when she thought of Beth, the only thing she felt was hope. That might have been misguided optimism. But no matter how many times Dorran cautioned her, it didn’t dampen.
Dorran returned half an hour later. At Clare’s raised eyebrows, he smiled sadly. “Still asleep. I changed her bandages.”
Clare ladled soup out for the pair of them. “I can keep an eye on her this afternoon if you want to sleep. I don’t want her to be alone if she wakes.”
“I thought of that. I set up a bell on the bedside table, attached to a string in her hand. If she stirs, she has a way to call us.”
Dorran slept that afternoon, exhausted from the day’s work and having watched over both Clare and Beth the previous night. Clare lay beside him, watching his eyelashes twitch as he dreamed. He rolled over, his arm coiling around Clare and holding her near, the way he usually did when he slept. She smiled and nuzzled closer, grateful for what they had, grateful for how much brighter their future was.
A steady routine formed over the following days. Dorran and Clare spent much of their time cleaning the house. They moved through the most-used rooms first, clearing out bodies and doing what they could to scrub
stains out of carpet. The chilled house helped preserve the bodies, but even so, a slow decay began. Some days, they would open the windows and endure the burning ice just to get some fresh air through the rooms.
Through the work, they allowed themselves frequent breaks. There was no deadline they were rushing to meet or disasters they were trying to stave off, and they indulged in the chance to spend time together.
Every few hours, Dorran and Clare checked on Beth. They kept her bandages clean, adjusted her as much as possible to prevent bed sores, and dripped water into her parched mouth. With no medical equipment, there was no safe way to feed her. Once, Dorran tried to gently broach the idea that Beth might never wake. Clare didn’t believe that. And five days after the code was activated, Beth’s bell finally rang.
Chapter Forty-Two
“Sun.” Clare laughed, pressing close to the window, admiring the way the light caught on the bare branches of the shrubs flanking the driveway. It was twenty days since what she’d begun to think of as the end of the stillness. After weeks of blanketing snowstorms, they had endured two days of heavy rain. It had melted the snow and flooded the region for days.
Now, finally, the water had subsided. The grey clouds had cleared, and the sun, weakened by winter but still resilient, had appeared.
“It’s still cold out, so I don’t imagine we’ll last long, but…” Dorran shrugged, smiling. “Shall we have lunch outside?”
He looked good, dressed in a thick sweater and fur-lined jacket. She’d given him a haircut. Dorran had told her to cut it however she liked, but Clare had become so fond of his long hair that she couldn’t bear to remove much of it. Now, he looked a lot like he had when she’d first met him.
Clare, for her own part, wore a mix of her old clothes and ones claimed from Winterbourne’s closets. It created an odd blend that she quite liked; jeans and silk dresses, classic floral patterns and modern stripes.
They pushed Winterbourne’s front doors open, then Clare and Dorran ferried out supplies for a makeshift picnic. They wouldn’t be sitting on the ground—the stones were too cold, and Clare still hadn’t forgotten the vile slurry they had washed over the front steps—but on chairs, with an end table covered in cooked vegetables and a few treats from the long-life supplies. They tried not to dip into the tins as a rule, but that day was a celebration. The sun was back.
With their setting arranged on the courtyard outside Winterbourne, Clare wrapped a thick scarf around her neck and picked up the stack of blankets. Dorran appeared on the stairs, moving slowly. His hand was under Beth’s arm, guiding her and supporting her.
Clare caught up to them at the base of the stairs and took Beth’s other side. Her steps were halting, shuffled, like a woman of ninety instead of thirty. She looked like a memory of herself. Her skin had sunken, her hair had fallen out, and her lips were always cracked. She didn’t speak but obeyed simple instructions. Clare could ask her to hold out her arms to put on a jacket, and she would. That meant she could still understand what was happening, at least to some degree. She ate, but reluctantly.
The most disconcerting change was her lack of emotion. She didn’t seem to feel happiness, frustration, or even boredom. She spent most of her day in her room, lying down and staring at the opposite wall, only moving when Clare or Dorran made her. But Clare thought she could see tiny improvements each day. The places where the spines had cut through her skin had finally sealed over. She could still walk. That was a victory.
Clare supposed that was one benefit of her higher exposure to the thanites: she had more left over after the code. They were still working to heal her.
The sunlight was shockingly bright compared to the rest of Winterbourne, and Clare squinted as she stepped through the door. Beth flinched as the light touched her skin. Clare and Dorran stopped, still holding onto Beth’s arms to keep her steady. They waited, watching to see how she responded and whether she tried to pull back into the darkness.
Beth blinked slowly, as though dazed, then began to shuffle forward again. They helped her into one of the chairs spaced around the table, and Clare draped the blankets over her shoulders and lap before taking her own seat.
It was the first chance any of them had had to step outside since the storm. A haze of dissipating mist drifted across the field. Their burnt-out bus, coated in snow and developing rivers of flaking rust, was starting to look like an artistic sculpture. Behind it, the massive pine trees cut a ragged line across the horizon.
Dorran poured tea for them while Clare served their food. The air was sharp on her skin, but it tasted fresh and clear. Clare held out a bowl for Beth, but she wasn’t looking at the food. Instead, her watery eyes had fixed on the sharp blue horizon and the green line of trees. It wasn’t unusual for her to stare into the distance, but this time felt different. She was watching the sky with more focus than normal.
A bird appeared—a rare sight in a world where most living creatures had been eaten. It circled above the trees in two slow loops before diving back down. Beth’s eyes tracked it. Then she took a shaky breath and spoke for the first time since she’d woken. “Pretty.”
From then on, Beth’s recovery progressed in leaps. She began pacing the house, restless. Clare found herself searching through the halls before each mealtime to find where Beth had wandered that day. Often, she would be stopped at a window, swaying as she stared into the outside world. She still rarely spoke, but she was showing more interest in her environment.
The daily maintenance of Winterbourne kept Clare and Dorran more than busy. The garden was their priority, and to keep the garden heated, they needed to run the furnace beneath it constantly. The stock of firewood stored in the furnace room dwindled faster than Clare had expected. In response, Dorran left every morning, an axe braced over his shoulder and the sled trailed behind him, to carve up fallen trees from the forest. He would return several hours later with chilled fingers and pink-tinted skin. Clare made sure she was waiting for him each time with a mug of coffee and a warm embrace on standby.
One night, five weeks after the stillness ended, Clare woke to the sound of creaking wood. It was dark out, and she and Dorran were nestled together on the bed. Sheets tangled around her legs, and Dorran’s arm was heavy across her waist as Clare rolled over. The weather remained patchy, and the clouds were too thick to allow much moonlight through, but Clare thought the bedroom door was open. She squinted, trying to read the shadows through the maddening wallpaper, then her heart missed a beat as something moved inside the darkness.
Monstrous round eyes flashed. Clare clutched at Dorran’s hand. He stirred, half-asleep, murmuring an indistinct question, and she gripped his hand tighter.
The situation was familiar. When she’d first arrived at Winterbourne, before she’d heard of the stillness or the thanites, she’d seen disfigured creatures standing over her, watching her while she slept. She’d thought she was going mad.
It’s happening again. We’re not alone. I was so foolish. I should never have lowered my guard—they’re still here, still alive.
The head tilted, eyes flickering, and lips pulled away from ragged teeth. Clare’s heart missed another beat then came back online, pounding with shock and relief. “Oh. You scared me.”
Beth stared down at Clare, her mouth formed into a grimacing smile. She was always slightly stranger at night, one of the echoes from the hollow nature. She didn’t sleep much but kept active during the night hours, moving through the mansion with long, loping strides.
Clare pressed her palm into her eyes, rubbing sleep out of them as she waited for her heart to slow. “How’re you doing, Beth? Are you thirsty?”
She liked to talk with her sister the same way they always had, even though Beth never replied. There was something comforting about it, and she hoped it would help remind Beth of her old life, too.
Beth’s head tilted to the side. Her smile didn’t falter, but her throat bobbed as she spoke. “Good… bye. Good… bye.”
“Goodb
ye?” Clare propped herself up on her elbows.
Dorran stretched at her side, only half awake.
“You mean goodnight?”
“Good… bye. Good… bye. Love… you. Good… bye.” Beth abruptly turned, her unblinking eyes and wide grin disappearing as she paced along the hallway.
“Clare?” Dorran’s warm hand rubbed across her side. “What was that about?”
“I think she just wanted to talk.” Clare shuffled back under the blankets, her brain already trying to drag her back into sleep, a dozy smile forming. “She’s getting better. Did you hear? She said she loves me.”
“Mm. I heard.”
Clare nuzzled back at his side, felt his warm breath ruffle her hair, and sank back into the security of his arms. Conscious thought was already beginning to flit away when her brain made a connection, and her eyes snapped open.
No, she wasn’t actually—she didn’t mean—was she?
Clare threw off the blankets and dropped her legs over the side of the bed. Dorran, shaken out of sleep for a second time, mumbled as he sat up, squinting at her. “Clare?”
“I think she was actually saying goodbye.” All tiredness fled. Clare yanked on her boots with shaking hands. “I-I think she’s trying to—”
A muffled booming noise sounded from deep in the house as a door slammed. Clare could barely breathe. She snatched her gown off the back of the nearby chair and raced for the door.
Beth had been growing increasingly restless over the previous days. She’d been staring through the windows at the forest with eager eyes. Clare had assumed it was an instinctual thing, that she was hypnotised by the birds and rabbits among the trees, like a house-bound cat.
But Beth wasn’t a cat. Despite what the thanites had done to her, she was still a person, capable of forming plans and carrying them out. Clare prayed she was wrong, that she was over-reacting, but as she ran for the stairs, she realised Beth had been wearing boots and a jacket when she stood in the bedroom doorway.
