by Tabatha Wood
She looks at Merida sitting beside her. She knows what she has to do. She doesn’t want to, but she has very little choice. She remembers the mob from earlier.
Move now. Move or die.
The car slides slightly as the tyres skid on some oil or wetness on the forecourt. She keeps the vehicle as straight as she can, grips the steering wheel tightly in both hands. Her knuckles turn white with the effort. Merida sits rigid in the passenger seat; tight-lipped, wide-eyed, and bracing herself for impact. She revs the engine as hard as she can, tries to get as much speed up as possible. There is not much road between them and the crowd, and if she goes too slow, well, she doesn’t want to think about what might happen. None of the oncoming horde appears concerned that she is aiming directly for them. They run onwards to meet her, driven by the madness of the wind.
She hits the first ones at 60 kph. They bounce off the bonnet and are hurled to the side, just like the man at the Botanic Gardens. The car sways and buckles, and she fights to keep it moving in a direct line. More and more bodies hit the car. The force of so many collisions creates a crack in the windscreen, but she cannot stop.
She hits so many that the car starts to slow down, but she keeps her right foot pressed to the floor, keeps plowing through the throng. Some are hit and stay down on the tarmac, others get back up. Snapped bones and blood and jagged wounds show through their clothes and flesh. Damaged tissue peels like scarlet ribbons from their faces. Pieces of rough gravel are embedded in their skin. They reach for the car, and claw at the paintwork, trying to grab a hold of the door handles or side mirrors as she passes. They try in vain to make her stop. She can’t stop.
She wishes she could close her eyes, to block out the crazed expressions on their faces. But even if she could, she knows their dreadful features are already engraved upon her brain. She imagines them only like moths hitting the headlights. No matter how savage and menacing they seem, she knows she must not think of them as people. If she remembers that they are real human beings; people with lives and families and friends, she will be sick. She will take her foot from the pedal and the car will stall. She cannot allow that to happen, to herself or to Merida. She has a duty to keep moving, whatever the cost. She will say a prayer for each of them later, but right now she must survive.
Eventually the surge of the crowd comes to an end. She pulls at a lever on the dashboard and pumps cleaning fluid onto the windscreen. She wipes the gore and grime from the fractured glass and speeds onwards down the road. She drives past deserted coffee shops and takeaways. She cannot look back, nor think too hard about what she has just done. She deliberately does not look directly at Merida, nor into her rear view mirror. Whatever happens next, her life is changed. Irreversibly and forever.
Now they are alone with each other. Her and this stranger who sits silently, her eyes fixed only on the road ahead. This woman who she knows almost nothing about, and who knows very little about her. They have put their trust in each other, made an unspoken promise. She cannot guess what might be waiting for them beyond the city, what hides behind the hills. Whatever they both once had is gone, but maybe they can survive the future if they stay together. One way or another, she has lost most everyone else in her life. She is determined she will not lose Merida. She vows to keep them both safe.
She drives in silence. She feels the movement of the car, and sees the road laid out in front of her, as she turns and guides the wheel, but she hears nothing of the low growl of the engine, choked up with pieces of God-knows-what. A sharp rush of icy air whistles through the crack in the windscreen, but she hears nothing of that either. Long clouds move quickly across an ink-black sky. They are driven by the roar of demons in the wind, gripped in the power of their wings. The absence of noise is frightening, it brings with it a great sense of terror. She pushes the accelerator almost to the floor, takes each corner as fast as she dare.
She reaches out with her left hand, her fingers touching that of Merida’s. They intertwine, squeeze hard, and stay together. It gives her comfort. It gives her hope. It tells her everything she needs to know, without saying a single word.
They ride together, up and away from the city, climbing out of the howling storm.
About The Author
Tabatha Wood lives in Wellington, New Zealand with her husband and two boys. A former English teacher and school library manager, she is the author of three non-fiction books for education including Managing Boys' Behaviour: How to Deal with it — and Help Them Succeed!
Born in Whitby, North Yorkshire, Tabatha has always had a passion for writing tales of the strange and gothic, coupled with a deep love for the land and the sea. She strongly encourages the use of writing and creativity for positive mental health, and manages an online group for women to support them achieve their goals. Tabatha also runs writing groups and workshops which aim to encourage and empower every member.
Dark Winds Over Wellington: Chilling Tales of the Weird & the Strange is her first published collection of short fiction stories.
You can find more of Tabatha’s writing at her website tabathawood.com
