Trespassers

by Claire McFall

  “Because I didn’t want to upset you. What was done to the bodies, it made it pretty obvious who killed them.”

  He held her gaze, as if trying to establish how determined she was to hear the answer. She was very determined.

  “They were clawed,” he said. “There were gouges on them made by long talons. And the bodies had holes in them, like—”

  “Like something had punched its way right through them,” Dylan finished for him. She felt the blood drain from her face. “Wraiths.”

  Tristan took a deep breath. “I think so.” He winced. “No. I know so. They were killed by wraiths.”

  “But how could wraiths be here?” She tailed off under the steady look he was giving her. “We let them in. When we came back, we let them in, didn’t we?” Her hand crept up to cover her mouth. She thought she might vomit. “Shit! This is my fault.”

  “This is why I didn’t tell you,” he said. “Dylan!” He reached out to grip her shoulder, gave it a gentle shake. “This isn’t your fault.”

  She threw him a disbelieving look, though it was quickly replaced with horror, tears bleeding into her eyes.

  “It isn’t,” he repeated. “We couldn’t have known what would happen – and if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine.”

  She could only stare at him, the tears building until they spilled in hot streaks down her cheeks. Catching sight of Monkton out of the corner of her eye, she ducked her head and used her hand to cover her face. There was no way she could manage any expression but horror right now, imagining their mangled bodies. Flashbacks burst across her mind, memories of the swooping, clawing wraiths as they’d surrounded her.

  They had utterly petrified her – and because of her selfishness four innocent men had had to face the same terror in the real world. Had had to die that way, only to find them in the wasteland too – if they even got there.

  She couldn’t breathe. If she opened her mouth, she’d be sick.

  “Would you care to tell me what the issue is?” Monkton asked Tristan, ice in his voice.

  “Dylan’s upset, sir. I think she’s in pain since the cast came off. I’ll take her for some fresh air.”

  Vision still blurred by tears, Dylan let him lift her off the stool and lead her away. Monkton stood firm in their path, his arms crossed over his chest, and for an instant Dylan thought that Tristan would march right through him. Thankfully, they were saved by an almighty bang as Dove’s workbench exploded in a cloud of billowing smoke and test-tube shards.

  Monkton’s hollered “MacMillan!” and the screams and excited cries of the rest of the class provided enough cover for them to sneak out unchallenged.

  There weren’t many private spaces at Kaithshall Academy, but Tristan managed to find one. He led Dylan to a bench in an alcove around the side of the main building that provided a break from the wind. He held her while she cried into his shoulder, her face pressed into the fabric of his school sweatshirt to muffle the sounds. It was a long time before she was able to lift her head. Though humour was the furthest thing from Dylan’s mind, she snorted when she realised where he had taken her.

  “You know this is where Dove brings his conquests?” she asked, raising one eyebrow.

  Tristan’s focus changed from caring to indignant.

  “Has he ever brought you out here?” he asked hotly.

  “Are you kidding?” she gaped. Tristan waited. “No.” She rolled her eyes, then sobered. Felt her eyes prickle anew with tears.

  “Wraiths. You really think they were killed by wraiths?”

  “If I see the video, I’ll know.” He had the smart phone in his hand, but he waited, eyes on Dylan.

  She didn’t want to watch. She really didn’t want to watch it, but Tristan was right, they had to know. “Go on then,” she said. “Let’s see.”

  It took a moment to find, and achingly long seconds to load as the towering school building hampered their signal, but then the hoarse, gasping breaths of the man who found the massacre could be heard. Tristan lowered the volume until the curses and oaths were barely audible.

  “I can’t see, Tristan,” Dylan pointed out quietly.

  He glanced up at her, and reluctantly adjusted the angle on the screen so they could both watch. He’d been unconsciously protecting her still.

  At first there wasn’t much to see. It was dark, the flickering light of a torch giving relief in flashes too quick to focus on. Then the torch settled on white skin rent in deep gashes. The lower half of the torso was nothing but a purple mass of torn-up flesh and empty space. A hole, like something had ripped right through.

  “Shit, look at his face!” An exclamation could be heard from the video, even though Tristan had the sound so low it was almost on mute.

  Dylan couldn’t help but do as the voice commanded – and then really wished she hadn’t. The horror and violence of his death was painted across his features.

  “God,” Dylan whispered. “He looks so terrified.”

  The video ended and, though Dylan got the feeling that Tristan would have liked to watch it again, he looked up at her and then pocketed the phone.

  “There can’t be any doubt.” Tristan shook his head. “Not after that. Wraiths are here. They’re coming through the way we did.”

  “What are we going to do?” Dylan whispered.

  “I don’t know,” Tristan said. “I still need to think about it.”

  “People have died,” Dylan reminded him. “Four of them – that we know of. It could be more.” She swallowed back her nausea again. “We’ve brought it into the world, and it won’t stop. Will it, Tristan?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “It won’t. I just… I think maybe I need to go there, as soon as possible. See what I can work out.”

  “By ‘I’ you mean ‘we’, right?” Dylan scowled at him.

  “Dylan, no way! You’re injured, and it could be dangerous. I’m not letting you—”

  “Letting me?” He wisely didn’t respond. “I’m coming with you, Tristan. You can’t go without me at any rate.”

  He considered her, measuring the strength of her resolve. Dylan stared right back until he conceded with a sigh.

  “All right.” He bent forward and touched his forehead to hers. “I’m sorry.” Dylan knew he wasn’t just apologising for wanting to visit the tunnel alone. “I’m really sorry, baby. I should have told you, I just…”

  “You just what?” Dylan prompted when it seemed he wouldn’t go on.

  “I couldn’t do it to you. Lay this on you. Not after all you’ve suffered.”

  “We’re in this together,” she reminded him. “You and me. You should have trusted me.”

  “I know,” he said. “I forget sometimes how strong you are. I mean,” he offered her a crooked smile. “You’re the girl who faced the wasteland all alone to come back for me.” A gentle kiss that soothed Dylan’s heart. “You’re the one who saved me.”

  SIXTEEN

  “I can’t believe I’m back here.”

  Dylan stood knee-deep in thick grass verge and stared down at the black gaping maw of the tunnel. Police tape fluttered in the wind and the mouth had been roughly covered by a large sheet of metal with the sign: NO ENTRY: POLICE INVESTIGATION.

  They must have just finished clearing the crash site when the murders had taken place. It occurred to Dylan that perhaps it was only when they had taken away the lanterns and construction lights that a wraith had dared to creep through.

  It was mid-afternoon. The bus driver had looked at them as if they were mad when they’d asked him to drop them off at the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, but, by Tristan’s estimation, it was the closest spot to the tunnel that public transport would reach.

  From there, they’d had to slog three miles down single-lane country roads and through fields. This had almost done Dylan in – despite the speed at which her leg was healing. The going was rough and uneven on crutches, a test even for her good leg.

  She was still a li
ttle upset with Tristan. He should have told her what he’d discovered, when he discovered it. But now that they were here, their spat didn’t seem quite so important. Tristan must have thought so too, because he inched over and started rubbing at the tension that had suddenly formed between her shoulders, understanding how difficult it was for her to come back to this spot. The place that had killed her.

  For that alone, she forgave him.

  What would it be like down there? Her memories of being pulled out of the train were hazy at best. All she remembered was darkness, flashing lights. And pain. The tunnel was silent now, empty. Well, except for a doorway to the wasteland.

  Dylan swallowed, her throat tight. Would she be able to see the hole they’d made through from the wasteland? A small, irrational part of her was terrified that she might not see it, that she might fall in.

  Well, they’d soon find out.

  “You don’t have to go down there,” Tristan reminded her, breaking into her thoughts. “In fact, I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “I’m going, Tristan.”

  “It’s treacherous,” Tristan argued. “You could snap your leg again. It’s not exactly crutch-friendly.”

  “Fine then, I’ll leave them here.” Dylan shifted both crutches from under her arm and balanced them against the barbed wire fence she’d torn her jeans getting over. Apparently it was as sharp in real life as it had been in the wasteland, though at least she hadn’t cut her hands this time.

  “You know that isn’t what I meant.” Tristan marched over and picked her crutches up, went to hand them to her and then thought better of it. Hanging both supports over one shoulder, he threw his free arm around her back and grabbed hold of her jeans at her opposite hip. “Lean on me,” he ordered. “If you’re determined to go, I’ll help you.”

  It was said with extremely bad grace, but Dylan decided a meek “Thank you” was the smart response.

  Once they were down on the train tracks, the going was easier, though Dylan’s crutches sank into the thick layer of stones that formed a bed for the sleepers. At the entrance to the tunnel itself, she paused. Tristan had moved the NO ENTRY sign and was ripping off the police tape which had been stretched across the opening, but that wasn’t why Dylan stopped. Now she was here, she wasn’t entirely sure she could go back into the tunnel’s inky depth. Memories crowded in from last time, before she realised she was dead. Waking utterly alone, deafened by the silence. The tumble of seats, strewn all over the place. Those suspiciously soft, spongy objects, the slickness she’d slid across, then smeared on her jeans. Clawing her way out of the chaos then stumbling down the long, lonely length of the tunnel.

  “Tristan,” she whispered.

  He looked up from where he was rolling the blue and white tape into a sticky ball. He read the emotions on her face and his lips pressed into a thin line.

  “Stay here,” he begged.

  Perversely, that was the spur Dylan needed to free herself of her paralysis. “No. Let’s go.”

  She left one crutch leaning against the wall beside Tristan’s wad of tape, keeping the other on her bad side. Tristan used a torch app on her phone to illuminate the way forward. It was a cold light, making the grey stone of the walls seem like the bowels of some medieval dungeon, but it was better than nothing.

  Though the crashed train carriages had been removed, there was still a lot of debris littering the ground. Further up the tunnel, the crash had dislodged some heavy wooden sleepers and twisted up the metal train lines. In shifting flickers from Tristan’s makeshift torch, hampered by her stupid crutch, Dylan had to edge along gingerly.

  “Wait up, Tristan!” Dylan called. “I can’t— Gah! My stupid leg!”

  Tristan stopped, turning to flash the phone in her direction to better light the way, but Dylan still felt the need to hurry. She didn’t see the hunk of broken metal in front of her, but she felt it when it skittered out from underneath her feet.

  Falling, Dylan braced against the wall with her free hand. Her nails dug in valiantly, but she toppled forward, scraping her hand down the brickwork and landing in a tangled heap.

  “Dylan!” Tristan was at her side in an instant, lifting her up to a sitting position and collecting her crutch. “Are you OK?”

  “Yeah.” She grimaced, lifted her palms up. In the pale torchlight, they were bloody and raw.

  “Let me take you back,” Tristan pleaded.

  “No.” Dylan shook her head. She wasn’t leaving until this was done. “We’re almost there now. Help me up.”

  Tristan sighed, but he grasped Dylan below the elbow and hauled her to her feet. “Will you let me carry you, at least?”

  “No, you might need both arms free.”

  Tristan stilled at her words. “Dylan,” he said carefully, “If I thought there were wraiths in here, I wouldn’t let you anywhere near the place. End of story.”

  Dylan opened her mouth to argue – who the hell was he to let her anywhere? – but before she could get the words out he held up her crutch. “You ready?”

  As ready as she’d ever be. Dylan nodded and Tristan proceeded back down the tunnel, slower this time, making sure Dylan could keep up with his long-legged strides.

  It was obvious when they came to the exact spot, the place where her life had ended. For one, the area was cordoned off by yet more police tape and there were chalk markings on the wall and across the ground, along with what looked like dark pools of dried blood, and a heavy, raw smell. Worse, though – from Dylan’s perspective – she felt it.

  A coldness in her chest, a weakness in her limbs – like the life was being sucked out of her again. Or like her soul was trying to leave her body. She stepped back, suddenly afraid of exactly that.

  “Here,” Tristan said unnecessarily. “This is where we came through.”

  “And where those men died,” Dylan agreed.

  “Come here,” he said, hunkering down to inspect something on the ground. “Look at this.”

  Dylan took one step forward, then had to stop. She had that feeling again, deep in her chest. Like her heart was made of iron and there was a powerful magnet pointed right at her. Pulling, dragging.

  Panicking, she shuffled quickly backwards and almost fell over again.

  “Dylan?”

  “Don’t you feel it?”

  “Feel what?”

  “That pull. God, it’s like something’s trying to tear out of me.”

  “Like your soul?” Tristan’s eyes widened in terror. “Back! Back, Dylan!” Not waiting for her to move under her own limping steam, he leaned down and gripped her round the waist, lifting her off her feet and hustling her backwards.

  Heart still pounding, like it was fighting to stay in the protective cage of her ribs, Dylan didn’t feel like arguing with him. She expected him to drop her after several feet, but he kept going, the crutch squashed between them uncomfortably, his arms a steel band around her middle.

  “Tristan, put me down,” she said.

  He ignored her. “Should never have brought you here. Don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”

  “Tristan,” she tried again to get his attention. “It’s fine. I don’t feel it any more, you can put me down.”

  “When we’re out.”

  “Tristan, please, this is really uncomf—” she cut off the rest of her complaint, eyes focussing on something in the dark. “Tristan!”

  “No, Dylan!”

  She started struggling in earnest, eyes still fixed over Tristan’s shoulder. “Put me down! Put me down, now! Seriously, Tristan, you have to! It’s—”

  A wraith. It was a wraith, swooping and swirling down the tunnel like it was tasting the air, its looping pattern circling closer and closer in their direction. Dylan was astonished that it wasn’t making a beeline straight for them, but it seemed confused. Disoriented.

  “Tristan!”

  “I know, Dylan,” he ground out. “I can feel it.”

  Tristan hustled Dylan over to the tunnel w
all and dumped her down, forcing her body into the corner between the wall and the pebbled floor. Then he spun round and stood guard over her, tense and ready.

  “Wait!” Dylan squealed, struggling to stand up.

  “Stay down,” he ordered.

  “No, Tristan. Wait!” She tugged hard on his sleeve, then realised how stupid that was – he needed both hands free. Instead she thwacked him frantically on the thigh. “This isn’t the wasteland! You’re real now, a person. If that thing gets you, you’ll die!”

  “Shhh!” He pushed her hand away, his attention on the wraith.

  The light streaming in from the tunnel entrance, just ten or fifteen metres away now, made the creature harder to see. It clung to the shadows, advancing then retreating.

  “What’s it doing?”

  “It doesn’t understand where it is,” Tristan murmured. “They’re stupid, wraiths. They hunt as a pack, can’t think for themselves.”

  “A pack!” Dylan exclaimed. “We should run, Tristan!”

  Never mind that she couldn’t. She’d manage. And if her leg broke again, well, it healed fast the last time. Better in plaster than dead.

  “Shhh!” Tristan hissed again, turning for an instant to glare at her. “It’s only one. Don’t. Move.”

  “Tristan!”

  “Maybe it’ll ignore us. It keeps being drawn back to the blood stains at the back, then catching something else out here. It can’t decide. We might be able to just slowly—”

  “Tristan?”

  Tristan stopped speaking at the same time Dylan softly called his name. He turned round and stared at the hands that Dylan had lifted. The same thought had crossed their minds at the exact same time.

  Dylan’s bloodied palms.

  “You,” he whispered hoarsely. “It smells your blood.”

  “What wins out,” Dylan asked, trying to tamp down on her panic, “Old blood or fresh?”

  It might’ve been her imagination, but it seemed as if the wraith caught her question, locked on to it. And decided.

  “Dylan? Dylan, get up!” Tristan moved forward a few inches so that Dylan could climb up his body like it was a ladder. “Go,” he said once she was up. “Get out of here.”