I abandon the window and head deeper. This house is old, built of stone. I work my way from room to room, hoping to find a hole to hide in. Beneath the stairs lies a passage, leading below. I hesitate, but am soon forced to move as I hear the front door fly off its hinges. I take the narrow stairway. Why does it have to be a cellar? The young girl always gets killed in the cellar. I hope that this time the story is different.
I hunker down, crouching behind a low wall. Footsteps creak the floorboards above. I feel sick to my stomach. Daddy says that solars are slaves to the sun, cannot journey further than their master's reach. If that is true, then it cannot harm me here.
Dust falls from above, showering me with irritating fibres. I rub my eyes; they are struggling to adjust. I can see the odd outline: crates, tools, a desk cluttered with who knows what. Everything else is black.
The cellar door shudders. The footsteps have stopped. I gasp for air, hyperventilating. I know it can hear me. This only makes it worse. I cannot control myself. The handle turns slowly. I drop to the floor, curl up like a prawn, eyes clenched tight. "It can't get me here," I whisper repetitively. It does not seem to agree. The steps whine under stress, one at a time. My words grow louder. "It can't get me here." My voice trembles. I cover my ears. I do not want to know how close it is to me. This futile act makes no difference; I can feel its presence in the air. It must be stood right in front of me.
I squeal as I am scooped up off the floor. My stomach lurches. I cannot describe the horrifying thoughts flowing through my mind, the terrible things I imagine them doing to me.
I can feel its breath on my face, a peculiar scent, strangely familiar.
Fermented apples.
I look up. A pair of cold, blue eyes stare down at me. Tears flood my eyes as I bury my face into his chest. "Don't worry, Little Bud," he says. "I've got you."
JOHN
Saturday, 13:26
"They're coming," I shout. Ryan has his longbow in hand, arrow nocked and ready. Cait stands at the bottom of the stairs, watching intently. When this door opens, they will know our location. We will be vulnerable, open to attack. It is a price I will gladly pay.
"Are they alone?" Cait asks. I do not know the answer.
"I think so," I say. "I can't see anything behind them."
"That doesn't mean anything," Ryan grunts. He is leaning to one side. The wound is too fresh. I told him to take it easy, but he refused outright. He said he could not rest while his dad and Rose were still out there. I do not blame him. I would be out there myself if Cait had not forbidden it.
"David going out there is bad enough," she had said. "We can't risk losing you, too." I wanted to argue, my heart screamed for me to protest, but I knew she was right. It is not just my life, Rose's life, David's life on the line. What would happen to Ryan? What would happen to Cait? As much as I love my daughter, the mind must overrule the heart on such matters. And I have faith in David. If anyone can bring her home safe, it is him.
"Is she okay?" Cait asks. A stupid question. One I do not bother answering. I hold my position, as well as my nerve. Ryan stays poised. He has no target, yet his aim is fixed. If anything comes at us from the trees, it will not make it far once the door is open.
"Ready?" I yell.
"Ready," Ryan states.
"Yeah," Cait says.
"One ... two ..." Before three, I turn the key. The door clucks, rings like a bell. I boot it open. David bundles in, Rose cradled in his arms. She is unconscious, bloodied and bruised.
"Close it!" David demands. His voice has an urgency to it.
I reach forwards and slam the door behind him. He passes Rose to me, practically throws her into my arms. He stumbles. I steady him with a hand. This landing is narrow and short. It would not take much for him to fall.
Ryan is at his side in an instant, bow strung over his chest. "Take her," he says. "I'll take Dad."
"Bring her down here, now," Cait insists. I hurry to comply.
"Lock that door, Ry," I hear David say as I rush down the stairs. I barely keep balance in my haste. "Bolt it up tight." I can still hear his instruction as I reach the bottom. "It wasn't far behind." We all freeze at the words. I hope to God he is wrong.
"John!" I turn to Cait. She is less effected by the thought of solars than the rest of us. Her focus remains on one thing. She eyes me expectantly. "You bringing her or what?"
I shake my doubts away, press the fear down deep. I head to Rose's room. The door is thick and heavy. I barge past it, wasting no time on subtlety. The impact sends a tremor through Rose's body. Her eyes snap open.
"Daddy?" Her voice is faint.
I lower her to her bed, place my hand on her forehead. "I'm here," I say. "Mum, too." She arches her neck to look past me, to Cait. "You're safe now, Bud. You're home."
Her eyes are soft, sad. Her cheeks glisten with half-dried tears. Her hair is dull and greasy, matted together with blood and dirt. "David. Is he-"
"He's fine, sweetheart," Cait interrupts. I think she had hoped to calm Rose with her statement. It seems to have had the opposite effect.
"Where is he?" Rose asks. Her body is tense. Something spooks her, even now. What the hell happened out there?
"He's with Ryan," I say. "He's taken a beating, but he'll live. Are you okay, Bud? Are you injured?"
"No," she utters softly, "I don't ..." Her hand reaches for her hair, the blood that binds it. "I don't thinks so. I don't feel anything." She draws her hand away slowly, past her face. That is when I see it. Cait gasps in horror as Rose stares her in the eye, through the hole in her hand.
"What the fuck happened?!" Cait blurts. I silence her with a raised palm.
"Bud?" I say tenderly, taking her hand in mine. "Tell me how you got this?"
She looks me in the eye. I can see it before she even speaks. I have seen that look before, as a child. I see it even now. That look of having seen something and not knowing exactly what it is you have seen. I see it all too often, every time I look in the mirror.
My grip on her hand tightens. It is meant to comfort. She does not look comforted. Before she can answer, I say it for her. "A solar." She nods, confirming my suspicions.
I hear a scream from another room. A long, resonant roar. "John!" It says. David's voice. I leap from Rose's side. She is panicked by the sudden uproar, as am I.
"I'll be right back," I say. Cait shoots me a glance. I shoot my own back at her. She knows its meaning: stay here and lock the door behind me.
I rush to Ryan's room. David still calls for me. His voice is desperate. I burst in, fists raised. I do not know why. I do not imagine that solars would fight with their fists. I drop my hands as soon as I enter, having a better perception of the dire situation; having a better understanding of David's desperation.
Ryan is lying on his bed, thrashing. Foam gathers on his lips. His eyes are mostly white, rolled into the back of his head. David is leaning over him, holding him down. "Help me!" he yells.
"Cait?" I call. I run to their side, put all my weight on Ryan's shoulders. "Get in here, now!"
Ryan in convulsing, arms and legs flying in all directions. David has him pinned at the waist. I keep his shoulders clamped to the bed. His head snaps from side to side. I fear he may break his own neck before Cait can get to us. You would not believe my relief as I see her emerge through the doorway. She is less happy to see us.
"Get off him," she yells, snatching my arms away. "Don't hold him. You risk further injury."
"Then what the fuck are we supposed to do?" asks David. His aggression is understandable. The despairing heart of a worried father. I know this feeling all too well today.
"Put those pillows around his head," she says, pointing, "and give him some space." David does as she says. I take a few steps back. His movements are slowing. His eyes begin to close.
"What now?" David asks. He is not happy with Cait's reply.
"You leave," she says. She looks at me and adds, "Both of you."
I g
rab David by the arm, pull him towards the door. "C'mon, Dave," I say. "Let's leave her to it." David resists. To move him is like moving a concrete slab. He will only go where he wants to. "C'mon," I say again. I do not pull him this time. I gently sway his arm to my direction. "He's in good hands." To my surprise, he listens. He allows me to lead him. Neither of us say anything as we make a slow and arduous exit. He takes one last look at his son before I close the door behind us.
"He'll be fine," I say.
David slides to the floor, his back to the door. "I know," he says. "How's Rose?"
Rose. I nearly forgot. I turn on my heels, sights set on Rose's door. A noise stops me in my tracks. Did I just hear what I think I heard? A second noise compels David to jump to his feet. We stand shoulder to shoulder, watching the stairs, as a third noise causes us both to flinch. Something is banging on the door above.
I look at David. He looks back at me. "Fuck," he says. A sudden chill claws at my spine. "It followed us."
CAITLIN
Saturday, 14:57
"Shush," I say. He does not hear. I press my hand to his forehead. He is warm, but not concernedly. His skin is not clammy. I think the worst has passed. His moans are nonsensical. So many inconsistencies. He talks of demons, of men who cannot be killed. He talks of how he killed one, David the other. Strange for men who cannot be killed. It must be a vivid dream, or wild nightmare. Who knows? Only one thing remains consistent, the same as every other solar encounter: he has no memory as to what they look like.
"Rose ..." he bleats. "Rose ... where are you, Rose?"
"Rose is fine. She's in her room, sleeping." I place my hand on his. He reaches for me with the other.
"Rose." He drools as he babbles. "Rose. I'm sorry. I'll never leave you again. I promise." I chuckle, wishing that she could hear this. It would bring a smile to her face. A face as pretty as hers deserves to smile a lot more than it does.
"I'll tell her," I say. "I'm sure Rose will be happy to hear it."
"Happy to hear what?" And there she is. Her beautiful face peeks from behind the door.
"Come here, sweetheart," I say. Her eyes scan the room. I know why. "David's not here," I inform her. She seems to lower her guard at that. "You look much better, now. How are you feeling?"
"Good," she says, rubbing at the side of her head. "Still a bit sore." She has cleaned herself up, washed away the blood and dirt from her face and hair. She looks like an angel again.
"C'mon," I say. "Come sit with him. He's been asking for you."
She scuttles in with a spring in her step. "Me? Why?"
I shrug. "Dunno. You're all he's talked about." There it is; the smile I had hoped for. She beams from ear to ear. "I think that you being here will help him."
She joins me, kneeling at his bedside. I have removed the bullet, cleaned the wound as best I can. He is lucky.
"Take this," I say. I hand Rose a needle and thread. "Do you remember how?"
Her hands tremble as she takes them. "I thinks so," she utters. She sounds unsure. She is nervous. I do not blame her. This is her first time stitching the living.
She takes a set of tweezers from the tray beside me. Ryan groans as she lifts the skin on one side of the laceration and forces the needle through. It is a thick, blunt thing. Not ideal for this situation. It is all I have to hand. Yet, Rose makes do. Her suturing technique has improved. Her knots are clean, tidy. I doubt that even I could do better.
"What's that?" she asks as I rub ointment over the freshly sewn wound.
"Antibiotics," I say. "It will kill any bacteria."
"Antibiotics?" She is puzzled at the revelation. "I didn't think they existed anymore."
I cannot suppress my smile, but quickly rein it in. I do not want to seem patronising. "Your grandfather was a smart man," I say. "He taught me how to make my own." Her look of confusion does not fade. "All you need is the right bacteria to counteract the bad."
"From where?" she asks.
"Fungi, certain soils ... I'm not a pharmacist. I don't make anything too potent."
"Will it work?" I see doubt in her eyes, uncertain that what I tell her is truth.
"I like to think it does," I say. I do not want to get her hopes up. "Who knows? It might just be useless mould I'm smearing over him." She laughs. It is good to hear her laugh. "Don't worry, sweetheart. There's no reason he shouldn't recover fully."
"What do you think did this?" she asks. I was dreading the question.
"Single projectile, low calibre. A handgun most likely." She looks down at her hand, runs her thumb around the rim of the hole. "May I see?" She is reluctant, but offers it to me, lays it in my palm. I am shocked at what I see. "This is no typical bullet hole, Rose."
"Wasn't a bullet," she says. Now I am the one with a puzzled look.
"Then what?" I ask. She turns away. I guess she does not want to tell me. I put my hand over hers, hold it firmly between my palms. "What was it, sweetheart?"
"It was one of them," she says. Her hand trembles again. This time it is not nerves.
"Did you see it?" She shakes her head. How come no one ever sees these damned things? Are they invisible? "Did you see what made this?" I circle a finger lightly around the wound.
"No, not really," she says. Her hands no longer tremble. There is an sudden confidence in her voice. Not just that; there is also anger. "A beam of light."
Ryan's moans break the tension. "Rose. Please stay," he mutters absently. "Stay with me." Her freckled cheeks blush. She glances at me from the corner of her eye, sheepishly.
"I guess he wants you to stay," I say. A hint of a smile graces her rosy lips. "I'll leave you to it, sweetheart. Let me know if he wakes up or if anything changes."
"Okay," she says with the sweetest of smiles.
"I'll go and see your father," I say, taking my leave. "Where is he?"
Her smile vanishes. Only a dour look remains. "At the bottom of the stairs."
"Still?" I say. "Why?"
Her head turns slowly towards the door. Mine does likewise. "He can still hear it," she says. Her voice is vacant, distant. "It's still up there, guarding us, waiting."
"For what?" I ask.
"Night," she says.
I feel a shiver run down the back of my neck. "What happens at night?"
"They'll come for us." She eyes me once more. Her emerald eyes pierce through me, shaking me to my very core.
"Who, sweetheart?" I place a hand on her cheek. She is shivering, scared to her wit's end.
Her eyes turn away, towards Ryan. They zone in on his wound. "The others," she says. "The ones who can walk in darkness."
RYAN
Saturday, 16:23
I can see her. She stands before me. Her long auburn hair flows over each shoulder. I run my fingers through the strands, so smooth, so glossy; so perfect. I can hear her words, but do not understand them. They are not really words. They are clicks, sporadic, like a faulty clock struggling to keep good time. I know it is not really her. I can tell by her eyes. They are dark, no green to behold. Inky pools of blackness and misery.
"Welcome, Ryan," she says. She offers her hand. I look down at it. It is pale, haggard, withered to bone. I take it, regardless. When I look back up, her face is gone. She is a shadow. Only darkness remains. There is a hole in her head. I see the night sky through it. The stars and moon glisten through the opening. She lunges forwards. Her lips part, baring a blood-soaked maw. Her voice is deeper now, like the demonic growl of a hell-bound beast. "We've been expecting you."
The darkness vanishes in an instant. Light floods my vision. My flank stings, but the pain is not what it should be. I remember what happened. I should be in agony. The discomfort I feel is only that: a discomfort. My eyes drop from the ceiling, to the foot of my bed. She is there, watching me. Another dream, I guess. But it cannot be. She is smiling, drawing me in with those beautiful eyes. It is really her. This is real.
"How long was I out?" I ask. I try to sit. Pain tears through my si
de. I fall back to the sheets, groaning.
She is at my side in an instant. Her soft hands rest on my bare chest, silencing me. "Take it easy," she says. "You'll pop a stitch." She is smiling. But why? The last time I spoke with her I left her crying.
"Are you okay?" I try to hide my concern. I do a lousy job of it. My words ooze worry. More of a distressed bleat than a rational question.
"Hey, I'm fine," she says, giggling. Her hand brushes my cheek. She runs her fingers through my hair. My heart skips a beat. "It's you I'm worried about."
"I-uh ..." The words will not come, no matter how hard I try to force them.
"It's okay, Ry," she says. I feel like an idiot. I always do around her.
Finally, I manage a response. "I'm sorry, Rose." She hides it well, but I still see the hurt in her eyes. I place my hand on hers, wrap my fingers around it. She clutches them tightly. That smile, my god. She takes my breath away with that smile every time.
"I know," she says. I feel a pulse at my fingertips. Hers or mine, I cannot tell. All I know for certain is that it is quickening.
"I feel like such a shit," I say. "I should have just let you come."
"And end up looking as bad as you? I'm glad you didn't." I chuckle at the quip. I wish I had not. My hand finds the wound reflexively. It applies just enough pressure to stop the pain.
"No," she barks. I flinch. She pulls my hand from my flank and clamps it between her palms. "Sorry, but you shouldn't touch it."
My hand had only cupped the wound for a split-second, but I felt all I had to. "Your mum sew me up?" She shakes her head. "You?" I ask, taken aback. Her smile tells me all I need to know. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," she says softly, almost flirtatiously. My heart skips again. "So what were you doing in town?"
Solar: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller Page 6
