by Darcy Coates
Will it be enough?
Even with the layers, even with the gloves, even with every heavy, bulky protection they could find, she didn’t know if they could stay safe. But she was ready to try. Because if they could get to the car, it meant they were that much closer to reaching Beth.
“Hm.” Dorran paced around her, tugging on bits of her clothing, checking everything was secure. The pants had been tied over the boots. A belt had been looped through holes in one of the jackets to ensure it couldn’t be pulled up to expose her stomach. Still, he kept pacing, scanning her, and brushing stray hair away from her cheek.
“I feel like the world’s puffiest astronaut.” Clare gave an exaggerated waddle, trying to break some of the sombreness.
Dorran cracked a smile, but he didn’t laugh. “Come back, you’re not ready yet.” He scooped her hair away from her neck and tied it into a bun, fit a knit hat over it, and tied a scarf around the lower parts of her face so that only her eyes were free. Then he returned to the table and picked up the fencing face guard.
The mesh shield fit snugly over Clare’s head. Thick padding pressed against her cheeks, forehead, and chin, to protect her from the metal. The oval mesh ballooned out from it, extending just far enough that she had about an inch between her nose and the super-fine metal. Her joke about astronauts suddenly felt much more appropriate. The mask was as good as a helmet. As it fit over her head, the world turned a shade darker.
Dorran adjusted it, checking that it was comfortable and making sure it wouldn’t come loose. Flaps of padded fabric draped over her neck, and he tucked it into the collar of her jacket then stepped back. She couldn’t be completely sure through the mesh, but she thought he looked paler. Still, he nodded as though he were happy. “I think that is the best we can do.”
Clare hoped she looked cool. She knew she probably didn’t. She gave Dorran two thumbs up then rested against the wall while he donned his own gear. He was faster about dressing himself. By the time he was ready, Clare was starting to feel overheated. She was almost looking forward to the first blast of icy air as they opened the doors.
Dorran took up his own mask and fit it on. She hadn’t expected the mesh to hide his face so perfectly. It left her with an odd sensation, as though she were facing a stranger. The dark, expressive eyes she loved were gone. The straight, strong nose. The lips that could look so serious and so happy. All of it vanished under a blank, smooth sheet.
“Follow the same rules as last time,” Dorran said. Even his voice seemed muffled. “Stay close to me. If you feel unwell, tell me immediately. If you hear or see something, let me know. If we have a choice between fighting and sheltering, always choose shelter. Are you ready?”
She prayed she was. “Yes.”
He wrenched the doors open and welcomed winter into their home.
Chapter Eight
The first blast of cold air was as welcome and refreshing as Clare had hoped it would be. But when the second gust came, she scrunched up her face against the chill.
Snow was packed nearly to the top of the door. Dorran took up a shovel and attacked it, alternately pulling it into the foyer and shoving it out. The snow would drench the tiles when it melted, but they didn’t have much choice.
Dorran carved a channel through the middle of the snowdrift, effectively creating a ramp leading up to the ridge. Clare understood his plan and got behind the sled. He joined her, and together, they shoved their luggage over the peak. The wire-and-drape shell rattled as the wind tried to get under it, then the sled tipped over the ramp’s balance point and disappeared down the slope.
Dorran extended his hand. Clare took it, and he helped her climb over the show. She slid down the other side, tumbling and unwieldly in her outfit. Flecks of snow became trapped in the mask. As she righted herself, she tried to beat them free and restore her vision. She heard, more than saw, Dorran skid down beside her.
The good weather had held. The sun felt a little stronger than it had for the previous few days. Clare let herself hold on to the thin, risky hope that they might have turned a corner and that milder, warmer weather was on its way. Then she looked behind them and saw a patch of grey over the house’s broken roof.
A storm? Coming towards us or going?
She blew a breath through the scarf in an attempt to melt the last ice flakes clinging to her mask, then she turned to face the field. As far as she could tell, it was empty. The hollows seemed to prefer dark, quiet spaces when they could get them. The forest. The house. They only ventured into the sun when they had no way to avoid it.
The sled had come to a rest not far away, and they hiked to it. A rope had been tied around its front, creating a loop, and Dorran took one side while Clare picked up the other. Then they turned towards the forest.
“Normally, I would want to go between the trees, where it’s more sheltered.” Dorran’s voice was almost lost under the wind’s howl. “But the sled will have trouble on the roots. I think it will be easier to go along the path my family used when leaving the property, then backtrack along the main road. It will add perhaps ten minutes to our trip.”
Clare nodded. They had left later than she’d wanted, but even so, energy was in shorter supply than time. The sled was heavy. Their clothes weighed them down. And the snow was slippery and treacherous, an icy sheen over its surface. Even with snowshoes, Clare struggled to find a good footing.
She alternated her attention between the ground in front of her, the forest’s edge, and the sky behind them. Dorran was watching the grey patch too. It was hard to be certain, but Clare thought it was moving towards them. At least it was slow. With luck, they would be inside the forest and at least partially protected before it hit.
Her breathing was ragged. The face mask felt as though it were smothering her, and the frozen air burnt her throat and lungs every time she inhaled. Her body was starting to settle into that uneasy middle ground where it was both too hot and too cold at the same time.
Ahead, a gap between the trees loomed. The way the boughs hung over the road made it feel like walking into a tunnel. Banksy Forest was ancient; initially planted as a pine forestry but never harvested, its once-neat lines were breaking apart as old giants collapsed and younger generations grew to take their places. The oldest trees seemed to rise up forever, as though they were trying to blot out the sky.
The road was straight, and even though the layer of snow was dense, it wasn’t quite as thick as where the wind had whipped it up and built it into drifts. The world seemed to grow quieter as they entered the forest. Clare could hear both of them breathing between the steady crunching of their snowshoes… and, underneath that, the scrabbling.
Clare stared upwards, into the forest’s boughs. She thought she saw motion, but as soon as her eyes locked on it, the branches were still.
The hollows liked to climb. Beth said they hunted animals. Clare guessed the boughs would hold birds and squirrels for them to catch. She flicked her gaze over the branches, searching the interlacing silhouettes for any sign of life. The scratching noise was following them. And yet, the creatures weren’t trying to attack.
How sentient are they? She flinched as a branch snapped behind them. She turned, but still, she couldn’t see anything. Do they remember what happened to the others that attacked us? Are they frightened of us? Or… are they cleverer than we know? Are they waiting, planning, looking for an opportunity?
“Not far now.” Without the wind snatching away their words, she could hear Dorran more clearly. She tried to smile for him, before remembering he couldn’t see her any better than she could see him.
Their path opened up unexpectedly. One moment, they were encased in what felt like a never-ending hedge of trees. The next, Clare stumbled as the vegetation thinned into a familiar channel.
She’d driven the road through Banksy Forest at least once a week for as long as she’d lived in the area. She thought she recognised the part they were in, thanks to a bend to their right. If she was right,
they were still in the heart of the forest.
Dorran indicated to their left. It took a moment to get their sled lined up on the new path, then they set off again. Clare’s muscles were waning, but she walked a little faster. Being on the main road meant they were close to their car—and the hollows still hadn’t shown themselves.
The road led them around a gentle bend, then up ahead, Clare glimpsed her car. The little red hatchback had ridden up on the side of the road. Its hood was crumpled from smashing into one of the ancient trees. The front driver’s door hung open, but it was at an angle that had allowed relatively little snow inside.
She and Dorran exchanged a look, and she was pretty sure that, under the mask, he was smiling just as broadly as she was.
A branch cracked behind them. Clare turned, and her heart dropped. In the distance, almost perfectly blended into the forest, stood a figure at least two heads taller than she was. It leant out from between the trees, one elongated arm dangling. The limb had been broken. Bone fragments jutted out, and they seemed to have grown. The sharp spikes fanned out like early plumage. Clare stared at it. It stared back.
“Dorran,” she whispered.
“I see it. Get to the car.”
She pulled on the rope again, pushing tired muscles to move faster. The car was close. The hollow wasn’t following. Please, let it stay there.
Dorran gave the sled a final shove as it slid around the car’s back, unfastened the dome shelter, then pulled the axe out from underneath. He turned to face the hollow. “Can you get the supplies by yourself?”
“Yes.” She wrenched on the rear door’s handle. Snow and ice had formed a seal around it, but a sharp kick cracked it free. The door fell open, revealing the two travel cases she’d packed for the trip to Beth’s.
They held necessities. Long-life food. Batteries. Clothes. A small first aid kit. A couple of books, which would have been essential to survive weeks in a cramped room with little other entertainment. Clare hauled them out, gasping as she moved the heavy cases to sit on the sled. She stacked them, then used the twine to tie the shelter down on top of them.
“Got it,” she called to Dorran.
He stood by the car’s front, one hand resting on the lifted bonnet as he alternated his attention from the wrecked engine to the hollow between the trees. “Is anything else in the car useful?”
She looked in the boot. It held jugs of water, long frozen; she left them there. Winterbourne had its own water supply. “Not unless you can get the petrol out of the tank.”
“It is spilt.” Dorran stepped away from the car’s front, still keeping his eyes on the figure posed between the trees. “We will need to retrace our steps to reach the road. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
Chapter Nine
Dorran faced the creature blocking their path. “If it attacks, be prepared to run. We can retrieve the sled another day if need be.”
Clare picked up her end of the rope and heaved the sled back onto the path. It rocked before stabilising, and Dorran took up his half of the rope. With the extra weight, Clare had to dig her feet into the snow to get it to move. She was grateful she had Dorran with her. He’d been right when he said it wasn’t something he could do alone.
She tried not to stare at the hollow, even though a morbid curiosity kept pulling her attention towards it. The creature watched them, not blinking, its jaw hanging open. As she got closer, she had a better view of its features. She thought it might have been male before it became warped. It no longer wore any clothes. The skin over its face was drooping as though it had been melted, and the nose was little more than a bump. Its chin seemed to have receded into its neck, until its entire head and throat looked like one form.
They were nearly level with it. The hollow leaned farther out from its cover. Its throat began to vibrate as a low chattering noise came from it. The sound left Clare feeling cold. The face was human, but the mind definitely wasn’t.
Clare kept her head down. Dorran pulled the sled with one hand, but in the other, he held the axe. The blade was raised, not high, but at the ready.
To their right, a narrow, dark gap appeared between the trees: the path leading to Winterbourne. They were giving the hollow the widest berth possible. Even so, the creature reacted to their presence. It sank low, drawing tension into its legs. The chattering grew louder. Its small, watery eyes followed them, seeming too close to the badly spaced teeth in its slack mouth.
Then they were at the path and turning away from the hollow. Clare lifted her head again as she tried to keep moving despite the shaking in her limbs. She could see Dorran in her peripheral vision. He kept the axe at the ready, his head tilted to watch the monster behind them.
We did it. We walked right past one.
An idea rose. Maybe the hollows weren’t attacking because they couldn’t recognise her and Dorran as human. With the masks in place, neither of them had a face.
It almost felt too good to hope for, but if she was right, the possibilities were incredible. It meant they could venture past the house’s walls without being afraid. It meant they could get to Beth—
A branch snapped behind them. She looked over her shoulder. The elation faded. The hollow had followed them. It kept its distance, staying nearly twenty feet back, but when they took a step, so did it.
She wished she could see Dorran’s expression. He flexed his grip on the axe, his shoulders visibly tight even under the layers. They both increased their pace.
The hollow matched them. No, Clare realised. Worse than matched. It’s gaining. It seemed to be picking up speed, its long legs loping forward, its torso bent. The melted, deformed face still fixated on them.
And it was no longer alone. Clare could hear them at their sides: the rustle of dead pine leaves being crushed. Strained branches creaked. She tilted her head and glimpsed scuttling movement among the boughs.
No. Please, not now, not when we’re so close.
She didn’t dare speak to Dorran. Making any kind of noise felt like too much of a risk. They kept their heads down as they dragged the supplies back along the path. Dorran’s mask turned from side to side as he watched their surroundings. He adjusted his hold on the axe again.
The path ahead was growing lighter. They were at the edge of the forest. But the noises around them were surging. The animalistic chattering came again, first from the hollow following in their wake, then echoed by the ones in the trees. Clare strained to breathe through the stress choking her. She tried to guess how many there might be. Too many.
Every time she thought she had them located, more noises emerged from the underbrush, from the branches above, from every side, and even from ahead. A small shape darted across the path. Clare prayed it wouldn’t attack. She could fight the larger hollows, if it came to that. She didn’t know if she would be able to kill a child.
Then they stepped through the edge of the forest, and the clear white field, glaring in the late afternoon sun, stretched ahead of them. Winterbourne loomed in the distance.
Not far now. Twenty minutes, if that.
She chanced a look over her shoulder. Dozens of eyes glittered from between the trees. They’d stopped at the edge of the forest, holding to their shadows.
Above, the storm clouds stretched across the entire sky. The wind felt colder as it gusted through the mask. Clare couldn’t stop shaking. She fought to keep her footing steady, to keep herself upright and moving.
Snow crunched behind them, and Clare flinched. She didn’t stop to look. Neither did Dorran. They both faced the manor, shoes digging into the show, adrenaline battling exhaustion.
Then Dorran cried out and fell. Clare turned in time to see him swipe the axe at a hollow that had raced in their wake with deceptive quietness. The creature, a stocky buckled one, pulled at his leg. Its spine rippled like an accordion. Its flesh was almost as white as the snow. When it opened its mouth, a tongue with a deep split down its centre arced out, flicking through the frozen air, before
coiling back inside like a snake.
Clare dropped the sled’s rope. Dorran’s axe connected with the hollow’s shoulder, and dark-red blood sprayed across the white field. The monster coiled back, snapping and hissing, then dove forward again, aiming for Dorran’s throat.
Instead, it hit the end of the pitchfork. Clare yelled as she forced the implement forward, the tines plunging through the hollow’s chest. She could feel the bones cracking and cartilage breaking. The hollow barely seemed to notice. It reached forward, lumpy arms and knobbled fingers scrabbling along the wood, trying to grasp Clare.
Dorran was back on his feet. He had a better shot this time. Clare held the pitchfork as still as she could while he swung. The axe sank into the hollow’s skull, cleaving it in half between the eyes. More blood bubbled out of the hole, but there was less than Clare would have expected. It seemed thick, almost as though it had been dehydrated, as it dribbled over the creature’s torso. The bulging eyes turned in opposite directions. The jaw fell slack, and the cleft tongue slid over the bottom lip. Dorran pulled his axe free as Clare shook the creature off the tines.
They stood for a moment, staring down at their work, panting and shaking. Then Clare looked up. Three hollows had stepped away from the forest’s edge. They watched her. Their expressions almost seemed curious.
A slow, muffled rumbling noise made prickles run along her skin. The storm was coming. It progressed slowly, creeping across the landscape. Heavy drops of sleet hit the trees, the snow, the house.
Dorran found her arm and tugged on it. “Move,” he whispered. “As quickly as you can.”
She grabbed the rope, stumbled, and caught her balance. The hollows stood in front of the forest. They were still, but she thought they must have come closer when she wasn’t looking. Another two had appeared between the trees.
