by Darcy Coates
Beth might have wanted to fit in with the Joneses living all around her, but when it came to her private back yard, she hadn’t been able to hide her true nature. She loved gardens, and not the sparse shrubs and succulents that were the staple around her. She grew flowers, vines, and trees with wild abandon, and the tame front yard hid a wonderland planted behind the house. The bunker wasn’t the only addition that would have raised eyebrows.
Clare slowed at an intersection, and butterflies clustered in her stomach. She knew the turn; she’d taken it a hundred times. The washed-out wooden fence to her left. The bank of rose bushes to her right. It felt almost as much like home as her own suburb.
“Okay,” Clare muttered, turning the wheel.
Everything was familiar, but at the same time, it had all changed. The lawns were dead. Branches had come down, and there was no one to remove them. The windows were all cold and empty in a way Clare had never seen before.
She passed the house owned by the woman with three huskies, but the kennels were quiet and empty. The dogs had to be dead. Eaten, probably by their owner. Nausea clenched her stomach. Dorran seemed to sense it; his hand rested on her shoulder, warm and comforting. Clare breathed deeply as she coasted past the house.
The children were missing from the yard they always seemed to congregate in. Three tricycles had been abandoned on the lawn. Clare wondered if they now made up part of the group that tormented Beth in her bunker. What would a toddler’s fists sound like beating against the metal door?
Clare forced her eyes to move farther along the street, towards the house she knew the best. It was darker and quieter than normal, perhaps a little more worn down than Beth would have let it become, but in some ways, it also looked unchanged. Clare had the sudden idea that she could climb the two steps to the wood door, hear her knocks echo through the rooms, and wait on the clatter of excited footsteps coming to let her in, just like she used to.
Then she blinked and saw the car crashed outside Beth’s home. It had crushed her mailbox and ended its trajectory against the tree that shaded Beth’s living room in summer. The tree, a weathered old maple, stayed standing; the car’s driver seat was empty, but a thick streak of dark liquid smeared the windshield. Its tail hung onto the road, stopping her from parking directly outside Beth’s.
“Stop in the middle of the road,” Dorran suggested. “It will be easier to drive away quickly, if we need to.”
Clare nodded, feeling foolish. She’d been subconsciously looking for another parking space between the other cars. Old habits died hard. There was no one to care if she blocked the street, but she still felt like she was doing something wrong as she put the car into park.
Dorran turned in his seat to reach the car’s back storage supplies. He resurfaced with three masks: one for himself, one for Clare, and one for Beth.
Thank you, Dorran.
He couldn’t believe they would find Beth alive. But he was still going through the motions for Clare’s sake. A thin smile struggled to hold as she took her mask and stared at the slightly dented mesh.
She didn’t feel ready. She’d had two full days to think and worry and hope; it still hadn’t been enough. She pulled the mask on, and the world dimmed under the mesh and folds of fabric.
Dorran passed her the leather jacket and gloves. They were still grimy from their first trip to the car. She strapped them on, using their makeshift ties to fasten the gloves to the sleeves and cover every inch of skin. Dorran mimicked her motions beside her. His breathing was fast and faintly ragged. She wondered if he felt the same thrum of fearful adrenaline that was pulsing through her.
“Ready?” His voice was low and intense. One arm was poised to open his door.
Clare took a slow breath. “Wait. One moment.” She twisted around to find the radio she’d discarded in the back seat. She knew it would be futile, but she was too frightened to stop herself. She switched it on and checked it was locked into the right frequency.
“Beth? It’s me. We’re here for you. Please reply.”
Nothing but white noise responded. She hadn’t expected anything different; she’d only known that she had to try. She placed the radio on the dashboard, unwilling to shut it off, then turned towards Beth’s house.
Their path would lead them down the narrow passageway between the right-hand side of the house and the fence, through the side gate, and into the backyard. She twisted, scanning the street, looking for motion. It seemed clear. She didn’t expect it to stay that way for long, but they didn’t need more than a couple of minutes.
Dorran took a breath, and Clare felt he was on the cusp of saying something. Then he shook his head. Clare reached across the space between them and took his hand. He leaned closer, until their masks bumped together, and through it, Clare glimpsed his eyes. They were intense, filled with fear, sadness, and adoration.
“We’ll be quick,” Clare said. “Don’t worry. As soon as we’re sure Beth is gone—we’re leaving.”
He nodded. “Whatever happens… know that I love you. So much.”
He squeezed her hand. Clare held it in return, suddenly afraid to let go. Then they both turned towards their doors, and in unison, the latches clicked as they opened. Clare and Dorran stepped out into the silent world.
Chapter Thirty-Two
They each held a weapon of choice. Clare had lost her crowbar at the bridge, so she carried the fire poker. She hadn’t consciously planned it, but she gravitated towards long weapons. Knocking the hollows aside was easier than feeling a blade become buried in skin. Dorran brought his axe, its head already stained dark brown. He carried it one-handed, held at his side.
Beth’s front garden gate barred their path. Clare couldn’t shake the feeling of surrealism as she neared it. Beth had been pedantic about her gate; even though it was only waist height, she’d never left it unlatched. She’d been afraid of strangers breaking in and believed a shut gate would act as a deterrent. Clare had never bought into the theory. But Beth had been resolute about it. And here, at the end of the world, her gate remained shut.
The metal latch screeched as Clare opened it. She left it ajar, knowing their retreat was likely to be quick.
The small brick house stood ahead. Now-dead vines clung to the side walls. Plain cloth curtains blocked the front windows, hiding the comfy chairs and quirky paintings from neighbours’ eyes. Clare couldn’t count how many hours she’d spent inside the home with her sister, sometimes arguing about things that now seemed inconsequential, or laughing as they watched cheesy comedies. She’d known seeing Beth’s house would raise emotions for her. She hadn’t expected them to be so strong.
I came for you, Beth. I’m sorry it wasn’t sooner.
Down the side of the house, moving quickly and rolling their feet to minimise noise on the rough pebble path, Dorran and Clare hung close together. A low, steady chattering noise floated across the fence and manicured lawns. It wasn’t too close, not yet, but still closer than Clare would have liked.
A second latched gate opened into the backyard. Trees, shrubs, and flowers, Beth’s pride and joy, filled the area. They were looking worse for wear, just like everything else in the new world. But many of them were still green. It was a little spark of joy in Clare’s heart.
At the garden’s back, between two twisting crape myrtles, was the bunker. Its entrance was discreet, just a square metal door standing between the trees. A concrete tunnel behind it disappeared underground at a ninety-degree angle. The door was closed.
“Okay.” The lump in her throat was choking her, but she squared her shoulders. Seeing the shut door answered the question that had plagued her since she’d lost the radio in Winterbourne’s shed. Beth had chosen suffocation over death at the hollows’ hands.
Stay with the plan. The longer you spend out here, the more danger you’re putting the both of you in. See inside the bunker. It’s the only way you can be certain. But no matter what you find in there, you’re turning around immediately and going bac
k to the car. There isn’t time to bury her. You can grieve on the drive home.
Beth had kept a spare key for the bunker in case Clare ever needed to use it in an emergency. When Beth had shown her where to find it, Clare had tried to turn it into a joke about paranoia. Now, she was only grateful for her sister’s forethought. She knelt at the stack of pots running along the back wall and pulled out the second-largest one. Wood louse and tiny pale worms squirmed away as she turned the pot over. Taped on the underside was a discoloured silver key.
Dorran stayed in the garden’s centre, turning in a slow circle as he watched the surrounding wooden fences and the main gate. Clare moved to the bunker’s door. She was shaking. Tears stung her face behind her mask.
See inside the bunker then leave.
She made to slot the key into the lock and felt a jolt of shock as the door creaked. Clare pressed her fingers to the cold metal and pushed. The door drifted inwards. Someone had opened the door then carefully closed it behind themselves.
Beth. So, you chose to let them in after all.
She felt Dorran watching her but wasn’t able to meet his gaze. A screaming, chattering wail came from somewhere near the road. Clare shook her head. She couldn’t afford to be wasting time. She stepped into the stairwell, taking a short, sharp breath.
The smell was immediate and repulsive. The stink of urine. The sour scent that she’d come to associate with hollows. And beneath it, the sweetly poisonous tang of rotting flesh.
I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to see her dead.
But she had to. They had risked their lives to get to the bunker. Clare took another step down. The metal stairs echoed under her feet. Clare felt for the light switch on the stairwell’s wall then remembered the generator had died. The plastic switch turned uselessly under her fingers. She continued on.
The pit below was perfectly dark. Thin light—tinted red as the failing sun struggled to press through choking clouds—came through the open door and created an insipid rectangle of illumination at the base of the stairs. Inside that were three small drops of something dark. After another step, Clare staggered against the wall as the smell became worse. She was nearly choking on it. The air was stale and seemed to stick to the inside of Clare’s lungs. Another three steps, taken too fast, and she was nearly at the base of the stairs. The drops of blood were clearer. Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness. Slowly, she turned her gaze towards the rest of the room.
Tins and bottles lay on the floor. A small pile of clothes had been discarded in one corner. The couch in the centre of the room was lumpier than Clare remembered it being. Near the stairwell was the TV, an old-fashioned boxy shape with a DVD player. Clare still remembered the films Beth had bought for her bunker. Her “I’ll never get tired of these” collection, all cheery romcoms and slice-of-life series.
Clare stopped at the base of the stairs, straining to see through the gloom. The bunker was cold, and her skin prickled. Dorran had remained at the top of the stairs, standing guard, but now he followed. His footsteps seemed to beat in time with her heart. She turned left. Beth had said she had torches. A cylindrical shape rested on the small table opposite the TV. Clare grasped it with shaking, sweating hands and felt for the button. She found it. Her little circle of light exploded over the opposite wall.
“Oh,” Clare moaned.
Beth’s tiny bunker was in chaos. The metal shelf that held her food and water had been knocked down. Its corner rested against the table, and its contents were spilled across the floor. The couch had appeared lumpy. Clare now saw why. Something had cut into its fabric, and the deep slashes spilled billowing stuffing.
Shiny dents marred the metal walls. The bathroom door lay in splinters on the floor. Scraps of papers were everywhere—on the floor, on the tables, and moving in little eddies when air from the open door disturbed them. The radio Beth had used to communicate with Clare lay on the floor beside the TV, its plastic shell cracked.
And there were dead hollows. Four of them. At least, as far as Clare could see. Two had been mangled so badly, it was hard to tell where one began and another ended. The third one lay face-down on the floor, a kitchen knife embedded through its skull. Its head was tilted to the side, facing the door. Clare turned her torch towards it, and its eyes twitched in the sudden light. Its jaw gaped a fraction of an inch wider.
Clare pulled off her mask, letting it drop to the floor along with the crowbar, then pressed a damp hand to her face. She had been ready to see her sister’s body. But it wasn’t there. Instead, she found only confusion and chaos. And she couldn’t make sense of any of it.
Dorran moved silently as he took the torch from Clare. She lowered her hands and forced herself to look again as Dorran examined the scene.
“What…” He shook his head.
She opened the doors. They came in. She fought.
A swell of pride for her sister was quickly followed by grief. Beth had fought, but she couldn’t have escaped. The suburb was teeming with hollows, and the sounds from the scuffle would have drawn in a wave of them. Her eyes dropped to her feet. The floor was saturated with blood. More blood than she thought the remaining bodies could account for.
They ate her. Clare felt herself choking and grasped at the unravelling threads of her mind as she tried to pull herself back together. Beth hadn’t died cowering. She had taken down four of the monsters before succumbing. That was admirable for anyone.
The nearest creature twitched again, its fingertips curling up a fraction. It wasn’t dead, but it was so close that Clare was amazed it was still moving.
Dorran placed a hand on Clare’s back and whispered, “Turn around.”
“What?”
“I need to take care of this. Turn around.”
She faced the wall above the table. The metal had been damaged there, too, by tiny scratches that had probably come from hollow fingernails.
Two loud whacking noises echoed through the room. Clare flinched. The hollow stopped croaking. Clare took slow breaths.
That’s it. You saw the bunker. You can get out now. Run for the car. Don’t look back.
Her eyes were blurred with unshed tears, distorting the marks on the wall above the desk. Her breath caught. The scratches appeared in little bunches. They were too controlled to be from hollows.
“Dorran. The torch.”
He directed the light towards where she pointed, and Clare squinted against the glare cast off the metal. The lines weren’t scratches from fingernails. They had been cut with the sharp edge of a screw. The implement lay on the ground just below the table, its tip worn down from the usage. Beth had written an address into the wall.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Helexis Tower, Floor 12, Inner City.” Clare ran her fingers over the words as she read them. The lines were all jagged from the force of being cut with a screw, but they were in Beth’s hand—she was certain. Beth had a particular way of forming Es that was unmistakable.
“Is the location significant to you?” Dorran’s voice was a whisper. He kept glancing up the open stairwell beside them. They had already spent longer than they should have.
“I know the city. I’ve been there a few times. But I’ve never heard of the tower. Why would Beth write it, though?”
“And on the wall, not on the paper.” Dorran indicated to the scraps of white littering the ground. Pages torn out of books. Scraps from the notepad that was now flung against the opposite wall. If she’d needed something to write on, there was an abundance of material.
The answer came to her quickly. “Because she wanted me to see it. She knew I would come for her, but that I wouldn’t have enough time to sort through the papers on the ground. So she left it on the wall, where I couldn’t miss it.”
Except you nearly did miss it, the little voice in her head whispered. If Dorran hadn’t made you turn around, you wouldn’t have seen it at all.
But it was the only theory that made sense. A message scrawled on metal. Somethin
g that couldn’t be erased, scrunched up, or burnt. Placed beside the exit. It had to be for her.
She pressed her hand to the metal. Her breathing was ragged, and her heartbeat sounded too loud. The fact that she didn’t understand the message didn’t matter. Beth had tried to communicate with her.
“Clare. Mask.” Dorran stayed facing the stairwell. He’d gone very still, and his whisper held a note of warning.
She grabbed the fencing mask from the floor and pulled it over her head, then she stepped up to his side. At the top of the stairs, framed by a square of harsh light, stood a disfigured silhouette. Its elongated head tilted to the side as it stared down at them.
Damn it. I promised him we wouldn’t stay too long. Clare, without moving her eyes from the figure, felt the cloth around her neck and the gloves tied to her sleeves. They were secure. It can’t recognise us. It won’t attack. We can slip past it if we’re careful—
More silhouettes appeared behind it. With the light diffused behind the creatures, she couldn’t see their expressions. But she could hear the hunger and anger as jaws stretched open to chatter at them.
The blood, she realised. They smell the blood down here. They’re going to attack.
The hollow lunged towards them, uneven footsteps ringing on the metal stairs. The internal door was propped open beside her. Clare moved quickly, grabbing the door’s edge and forcing it closed. She staggered as the cuts in her shoulder burned. The metal, designed to be airtight, was heavy and resisted being slammed. Clare grunted as the creature hit the other side of the door. She put her shoulder against the metal, trying to force it shut, but a grey arm stretched through the gap. Grasping fingers coiled around the door’s edge, hunting for her, flailing through the air. Then another hand. Then another.
Dorran swung his axe. A limb sprang free; a streak of thickened blood arced through the air. He kicked at another hand to force it back through. Another three scrabbling arms came to take its place.
