by Darcy Coates
She still didn’t know exactly what it was or who broadcast it, but she had some guesses. The clips, even the voices, all sounded pre-recorded. She thought it might be a radio station left running after the world went quiet, and its system had malfunctioned to play each automated segment for only a second or two at a time.
Clare scrolled through the channels until she found it. Even with the radio’s volume turned to its lowest setting, the noises were unmistakable. She heard a laugh track, followed by a single beat of a song, then a man cheerfully saying “Teeth—!” interspersed with static.
Dorran had returned, the blanket tied together at the corners to hold their supplies. Clare stood to take her place at his side. They exchanged a look, then she slowly, carefully opened the door. Fresh air rolled through as the seal broke, and Clare breathed deeply as she leaned into it.
They waited there a moment, watching the block of light at the top of the stairs for any sign of movement. It stayed empty. Clare swallowed then pulled her mask back over her face.
The hollow she’d killed lay just outside the door. The axe was still embedded in its skull, and its eyes stared up at them sightlessly. Its lower half had been completely devoured. Clare gagged and looked away as Dorran bent and wrenched his axe free. He lifted the bundled supplies onto his shoulder while Clare found her fire poker near the wall. Together, they stepped over the fallen hollow to ascend the stairs.
Daylight was running out. Clare guessed they had less than ten minutes of visibility left. That wouldn’t be good for getting out of the suburb, but she was sure they could make it work as long as they could reach the car. The garden seemed empty, but it was hard to be certain when the plants had lost their tones in the neutralising dusk.
They moved quickly and quietly, creeping along the house’s side. As they neared the front garden, Clare caught motion in the shadows around the silhouette of her red hatchback. She put her hand out to stop Dorran, and they held still, not even breathing, as they watched the creatures clawing at their vehicle. Clare waited until she was certain they weren’t looking in her direction, then she moved forward again, bent low as she sprinted around Beth’s fence to reach the neighbour’s yard.
Shapes appeared in the gloom ahead, stepping out of the plants, from around the cars, and through the open doors lining the street. Eyes glinted in the low light. Clare wondered if, like animals, the hollows were more active at dusk. She ran, Dorran keeping pace behind her with long, nearly silent strides. They only stopped at the stairs leading to the neighbour’s front entrance. A hollow set up its chattering cry, and the sound danced through the cold night air. Clare looked up at Dorran, a silent request for confirmation, and he nodded in return. She turned the radio’s volume up to its maximum level.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The noise blared around them, deafening. A second of piano. A second of a woman’s sigh. A second of what sounded like cutlery scraping over a plate. A second of a child laughing.
Clare shoved the radio into the massive bush beside the house’s front steps. The plant had managed to survive the cold snap, and its leaves were still thick and dark. They hid the radio well. She and Dorran turned and bolted.
The hollows initially recoiled from the deafening sounds. Clare had been relying on that; it gave them precious seconds to get out of sight. They ran around the fence, paying less attention to how quiet they were now that the radio was masking their noises, and didn’t stop moving until they were in the shadows of Beth’s front porch.
Clare pressed her back to the bricks, Dorran’s arm warm at her side, as they watched the street. Hollows crept towards the sound, scuttling like insects over the dead grass. Something heavy hit the awning above them. Clare’s heart leapt into her throat, and she flattened herself against the brick wall. Dorran’s axe shimmered in the moonlight as he lifted it.
The sounds moved above them, weaving towards the awning’s edge, then a hollow scuttled down the pillar to reach the yard. It didn’t so much as look at them as it skittered between the shrubs and towards the fence.
The radio continued to play its broken track. The sounds of traffic. A man saying, “Good evening!” Part of a song that Clare thought she recognised. All blended together into the static until it was a maddening soup of noise. Clare knew the human voices would be most attractive to the hollows. As they converged on the shrub hiding the radio, she turned to Beth’s front door and tried the handle. Like she’d been afraid, it was locked.
Dorran held up a finger. He passed her the axe, dropped the sack of food to the floor, pulled off his jacket, and wound it around his hand. He approached the nearest window and waited. It only took a few seconds for the radio to land on a noise that drowned out their movements: an angry foghorn. Dorran moved quickly, punching through the glass and scraping the shards away before the radio had a chance to switch to a quieter track.
Clare glanced behind them. One of the hollows on the street had frozen, staring in their direction. She held still, praying the masks would work. They did. The hollow turned back to the shrub.
Dorran jumped through the open window. A second later, the front door clicked open. Clare entered, then they closed it behind themselves, and Clare pulled her mask off to clear her vision.
The wood-clad hallway was barely visible in the darkness but still sweetly familiar. She knew the paintings on the wall, even if she couldn’t see them. Hulking couches in the living room seemed to be waiting for her and Beth to take up their usual places. It even smelt like home.
“Kitchen’s that way.” Clare swallowed around the lump in her throat and pointed to their left. “Spare blankets in the hallway closet. There are clothes in the bedroom, but only women’s.”
“That’s fine. I can continue to wear this. It is not torn, only in need of a wash. Get something for yourself.”
Clare went to the bedroom first. Beth was only a size larger than her, and they had the benefit of liking the same colours. Clare threw open the wardrobe doors. A need to linger, to see and hold the clothes, burnt through her. It might be her last chance to feel close to her sister, and that thought hurt. She blinked furiously. They had seconds, not minutes, and goodbyes were a luxury she couldn’t afford. She took an outfit indiscriminately and tucked it under her arm as she jogged back to the hallway.
She found Dorran in the kitchen with the pantry doors open. Anxious Beth always kept her home well-stocked “just in case.” Clare had also kept stores of long-life food, but at least she’d had a good reason. Her house was rural enough to be cut off from the shops in deep winter. Beth’s suburb never saw more than a dusting of snow.
Clare wished she could apologise for every time she’d laughed at her sister’s paranoia. Because that day, it was saving them.
Dorran had untied his bundle of supplies on the kitchen bench and was adding extra food to it as he searched for the first aid kit. Beth’s bunker had been well-stocked but lacked variety. They picked up extra pasta. Tins of sauces and fruits. Condiments. Clare found a box of chocolates at the top of the cupboard and couldn’t hide a guilty smile as she added it to the pile.
A knife block caught the light in the back of the room. She picked out one of the longest blades and tucked it into her jacket’s pocket.
Clare didn’t know how long the radio would hold the hollows, but she doubted it would be long. Just like they had at the barn, they would probe at the radio and either realise it couldn’t lead them to anything edible… or break it. Clare crossed to the window and tugged the curtains back. The radio, muffled, continued to play. She couldn’t see any movement.
She leaned close to Dorran and whispered, “I’ll search the bathroom. Keep looking here. See if there’s anything else here that might help. Torches or matches or anything of the kind.”
He nodded, and they split up. Clare followed the hallway into the bathroom and went straight for the cabinet above the sink. She pulled the mirrored front open and squinted at the contents. There was no first aid kit. Instead
, a truly staggering array of bottles and cardboard boxes filled the space.
“Beth, you hypochondriac,” Clare muttered under her breath. She snatched up the bottles and turned them over, trying to read their labels. Medicine for anxiety. Medicine for headaches. Medicine for indigestion, dry skin, and oily skin. A box of antibiotics, partially completed. She pocketed that one. Sedatives. Stimulants. Cold medicine. A box of plasters, which also went into Clare’s pocket. Sunburn lotion. Earache relief. And a whole row of herbal complexes that Clare couldn’t afford the time to sort through. And that was only on the first shelf. She’d known Beth liked visiting her doctor. Now, she was starting to think the doctor had been enabling Beth more than helping her.
Clare closed the glass door and bent to see if there was anything underneath the sink. As she ducked, she caught a glimpse of something in the mirror. Clare froze, her heart jumping, and slowly lifted her head again to see her reflection.
The past few days hadn’t been kind to her. Her hair had become matted and oily. Her face was grimy, even though she’d washed it in the river just that morning. The knit top’s collar was crusty with dried blood, and threads were hanging loose from where they had been pulled. She looked thinner than she remembered. And she wasn’t alone.
A hollow stood behind her. Its back was arched, shoulders thrust back to jut its chest forward painfully. All of the bones in its body looked like they had been twisted and extended beyond where they could stand. Its arms flexed behind its back. Both knees turned in, hobbling it as it tried to shuffle towards her. Its neck pulled back, and its chin tucked in so that it could meet Clare’s eyes in the mirror.
She turned, trying to yell, but the noise choked in her throat. She raised the metal bar ahead of herself defensively. But the hollow wasn’t charging. It backed away with a short, shuffling step. The bloodshot eyes twitched as they looked from Clare’s face to the metal.
“Please,” the hollow rasped.
Clare’s stomach turned cold. Even as deformed as it was, she still recognised the creature. Thin patches of grey hair hung from its head. Its skin was wrinkled, its naked breasts sagging. And its fingers, contorted behind itself by the twisted bones, still held a wedding ring.
Clare had met the old woman twice while visiting her sister. Annie lived down the road and owned three huskies. Beth had talked about her fondly. She was a sweet woman, Beth had said.
She hadn’t become mindless. There was awareness in her eyes, and misery pulled at her face. She had probably come to Beth’s house seeking help, slipping through the open front door and locking it behind herself. But Beth hadn’t been there; she’d been in her bunker. And Annie had become trapped by her own mutations, her fingers twisting until they could no longer turn a handle.
Clare felt paralysed. The radio’s noise still camouflaged any sound Dorran made, but she knew he wouldn’t be far away. Like her, he’d assumed all of the hollows had been drawn outside by the noise. But Annie wasn’t like her counterparts; she wasn’t blindly hungry. At least a part of her was still human.
The cracked lips parted again, and the hollow whispered through a near-crushed oesophagus, the words slurred and distorted. “Please… help… me…”
Clare opened her mouth. A horrible sense of despair weighed on her. What kind of help could make any meaningful difference? I can’t change this. I can’t reverse this.
The woman’s mouth worked, saliva pooling over her chin as she struggled to form the words. “Let… me… die.”
Tears spilt over Clare’s cheeks. She looked down at the metal bar gripped in her hand. Then she shook her head urgently, almost desperately.
You have to. She’s in pain. How long has she been here, wishing she could die, but too hobbled to end it herself, not even able to open the door? She can’t do it. You have to.
Clare imagined bringing the metal down on Annie’s head again and again, as many blows as it took to stop the twitching. She wanted to scream.
Dorran was close. She could call him. He would take care of it for her. Again.
That wasn’t fair. She already relied on him too much. She needed to be strong for him. To be prepared. To carry her share of the burden.
She raised the metal bar. Her grip was weak. The metal shook. She wouldn’t be able to do it. She couldn’t carry through.
Clare choked on a sob as she dropped the fire poker into the sink. Annie took a halting step closer, her expression pleading.
A weight rested in her pocket. The knife, she remembered. Clare pulled it out and felt the cool metal handle. “This… this, uh… should be faster.”
“Please,” the woman gasped.
Clare stepped near to her. Nearer than she wanted. Near enough to smell the stench and to see the cracks in the skin where it had stretched too far. She lifted one shaking and placed it on Annie’s opposite cheek to hold her head still. Then she brought the knife up and positioned it under the tilted chin.
The lidless eyes looked strangely gentle. They weren’t afraid.
“I’m so sorry,” Clare whispered and thrust the knife up.
Hot blood poured over her hand. Annie’s eyes rolled up in her skull. Clare tried not to scream, cry, or be sick. She needed to do the job properly. She twisted the knife, digging it in as far as she could, until Annie’s body went completely limp and tumbled to the ground.
Clare backed up and stood by the sink, body heaving as she retched and sobbed.
Chapter Thirty-Six
“Clare?” Dorran stood by the hallway cupboard, sorting through sheets and towels as he searched for anything useful. His expression tightened as he saw her swollen eyes, then his gaze flicked down to her hand, which was painted red with blood. The concern turned to terror. He crossed to her in five quick steps. “You’re hurt. Clare—”
Unable to stop crying, Clare shook her head. She’d thought she had the measure of this new world, but the encounter with Annie left her feeling dead inside. Dorran held her hand, turning it over as he looked for cuts, and she pulled free from him. Her tongue felt swollen and inflexible. “I’m fine. We need to go.”
He looked tense, his lips pressed into a tight line as he stepped around her, scanning her, his hands running over her shoulders and back. “What happened? I should not have left you alone. Was it a hollow?”
“We need to go,” was all she could manage. She moved past him, into the kitchen, towards their collection of supplies heaped in the centre of the quilt. She tried to pick some of the tins up, but Dorran gently pushed her hands back down.
“I have this. Just follow close to me. This will be all right, my darling. We will be all right.”
The radio still played its discordant clips, the audio loud enough to crackle through the rooms and mask their voices. Dorran brought the corners of the quilt together and tied them. He heaved it onto his shoulder then reached out his spare hand to hold Clare’s. She didn’t want the blood to get on him and shook her head no.
“Yes.” He took it anyway.
They moved through the house and carefully opened the front door. The radio abruptly fell silent, and they both froze. The quiet only lasted a heartbeat before it resumed: a man laughing, followed by three notes from a commercial’s jingle.
They’re breaking it. She could picture the creatures prying at the radio, trying to open it, trying to either make sense of or silence the voices.
Dorran paused in the open doorway as he searched the street. Daylight was gone, and the moon was weak. Clare hoped he could see better than her; she was struggling to parse the shadowed shapes. He kept scanning the environment, one hand holding the supplies onto his shoulder and the other clasping Clare’s. They half walked, half ran along the flagstone path and through the gate. Clare’s red car seemed to have gained a few new scratches on its paint while they were in the bunker, but she couldn’t see any signs that the exposed engine had been tampered with, at least.
Something wailed to their left. Clare turned and caught sight of the hollows gather
ed around the shrub—or what had once been the shrub. At least thirty of the creatures swarmed the area, clawing at the ground, clawing at the house, and clawing at each other. The shrub had been torn apart, branches stripped and discarded. They fought over the radio. Some of them had started digging a hole in the ground to get under the shrub’s roots.
Clare slipped through the passenger door as Dorran threw the supplies in the back seat and vaulted over the front to reach his side of the car. The hollows were starting to pay attention, but Dorran was efficient. He dropped into the driver’s seat and turned the key, and the creatures scattered as the headlight flickered on.
As the car pulled forward, Clare had time for a final glance back at Beth’s house. Its windows were cold and empty, just like every other building in the street. She hated seeing it like that; it had always been warm and inviting when Beth lived there. Now, it only looked abandoned.
Dorran took a sharp turn, and she had to brace herself against the dashboard to keep stable. This new cross street was narrower but quieter. She could feel Dorran watching her, his dark eyes careful and worried. “Tell me. Are you hurt?”
“No.” She couldn’t stop her eyes from burning, but at least her voice was steadier.
“Please, my Clare. I need to know you are telling the truth.”
“I am.” She stared down at her hands. One white, with grime under its fingernails. One smeared with red. “It’s not my blood.”
He exhaled deeply. “Thank heaven. What happened?”
Again, she saw the misery in Annie’s eyes. She couldn’t tell Dorran everything—not yet. It still hurt too much. “There was a hollow in the bathroom.”
He hissed between clenched teeth. “I am sorry. I should have searched the house before I left you alone in it. Why didn’t you call me?”
“It was already sick. It couldn’t move much.”
