by Darcy Coates
She reached the back door and pulled it open. Like she’d thought, there was a shape inside. It wasn’t a box, though. Two travel cases rested on the seat. She unzipped the closest one. Inside were clothes—enough to account for half of her wardrobe. A sewing kit had been nestled into the back, along with two novels.
Confused, Clare rounded the car and climbed back in amongst the trees to open the other back door. The second travel case was full of food.
She carefully, wonderingly, sifted through the tins and boxes inside. She recognised her nonperishable food collection that she kept locked in a spare cupboard in case she was ever snowed into her home. She’d designed it to give herself enough food to last for nearly three weeks in a worst-case scenario. She’d managed to cram it all into the oversized case.
Her emergency pantry also contained water. Clare, suspecting where she might find it, retreated to the boot and pressed on the latch. The car was unlocked, and the hatch popped open. Sure enough, six massive jugs weighed her car down. The water inside had frozen, and the plastic bulged but hadn’t split.
Clare dragged her hand through her hair. She’d packed up for the trip to Marnie’s, but not any normal kind of packing—emergency packing. Wait… no… it wasn’t a trip to Marnie’s.
Clare had been driving towards Marnie’s, but she hadn’t been planning to stop there. She was picking up her aunt on the way to Beth’s.
“Why was I doing that?”
Because Beth called you. She was worried about… about…
The memory danced away again. Clare closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose.
Beth had a bunker. She wanted Clare and Marnie to stay with her. And Clare had brought her emergency supplies because once they reached Bethany’s, they wouldn’t be leaving for a while.
Clare suddenly felt chilled to her core, more so than the weather allowed for. She swallowed thickly as she returned to the boot. The two-way radio was there, as she’d known it would be. The small black box had travelled with her for more than a year. She hadn’t ever needed to use it before.
She lifted it out and checked it. The batteries were still all right. She turned it on, adjusted the frequency, and pressed the button to transmit her voice.
“Beth?” She held her breath, waiting, terror pounding through her veins. Static answered. Every passing second ramped up her fear. She pressed the button again. “Bethany, it’s me, Clare. I’m all right. Please answer.”
The box replied with ceaseless static. Tears burned even though she’d thought she didn’t have enough moisture left in her to cry. She began pacing, her breaths ragged. “Please, please, Beth, if you’re there, if you can hear me, answer me. I need to know you’re okay.”
As the box continued to play white noise, Clare sank down with her back against one of the trees. She dropped her head to rest it on top of the box and scrunched her face up as short, gasping breaths cut through her. She knew Beth kept the box in her kitchen so she could hear it from every part of the house. And Beth wasn’t likely to leave it, not if Clare was missing.
What happened? Why was I running? She turned the questions over in her head a dozen times, fear making her nauseous.
If Beth had retreated to her bunker, like Clare’s supplies seemed to suggest, she would have taken the radio with her. It was considered a necessity, not just for communicating with Clare, but for talking with anyone else in the outside world.
She tried again. “Beth, it’s me, Clare. Please answer me.”
Clare shivered as the static played around her unrelentingly. The longer she sat still, the more the cold seeped into her, making her muscles stiff and her body tired. At last, Clare forced herself to stand before she froze. She placed the radio, still turned on, onto the car’s roof. Its tuneless static song played over her as she stared up and down the path.
Banksy Forest Road wasn’t a major highway, but it connected two small towns. The council was always prompt about clearing it after a snowstorm. If the towns had been hit by the same sort of erratic weather that had assaulted Winterbourne Hall, the snowploughs were probably busy elsewhere. Still, it seemed strange that no effort had been made to clear the path. The snow was pristine. There were no mounds of it on either side of the road to indicate the ploughs had moved through. There were no tyre tracks from brave—or brazen—citizens who had forded the road in their lifted trucks. No footprints. No sled tracks. Nothing.
Clare turned in a circle. She wasn’t having any trouble breathing, but the oxygen didn’t seem to be reaching her limbs. She felt cruelly, horribly isolated. The radio continued to play static behind her. She snatched it down and swivelled the dials, moving through other channels. The radio was capable of picking up commercial stations as well as other amateur broadcasters. She moved steadily, winding through every number. They all played static. Every single one of them.
Clare turned off the radio and tucked it inside her coat. She leaned forwards, her gloved hands braced on the car as she gasped desperately and tried not to fall apart.
There has to be an explanation for this. Something normal and laughably mundane. Something simple. Because I need simple. I don’t think I can deal with complicated anymore today.
The memories tangled over each other, too confusing and jumbled to focus on. Clare shook her head as noises and images assaulted her. It was too much, too fast. She staggered around the car’s side, towards the passenger’s door, looking for somewhere to sit down.
Then she saw the damage inside. The door had been left open. The dashboard was remarkably intact. The car had been designed to protect the driver in case of a crash, and it had done a good job.
Clumps of snow littered the floor and the passenger’s seat. Clare’s mobile was no longer in the front. She guessed it must have gone flying during the impact and was probably lost somewhere in the back, between the travel cases or under the seats.
Blood had been splashed across the front of the car. Specks of it had sprayed over the dashboard, the steering wheel, and the ceiling. Gluts of it had soaked into the driver’s seat and dribbled onto the floor. It was old and dry. It still smelled but not as badly as Clare thought it might have. Instead of being red, it had turned a grotesque black-brown shade.
And there were three lines gouged into the side of the seat. Clare reached out to feel them, but she hesitated before touching the marks. They looked like the swipe of a claw, like something a bear or a wolf might make. Banksy Forest didn’t have any animals that large, though. The worst it had were foxes, and they shied away from humans.
Clare pressed her gloved hand over her mouth as the memories, lost and tangled for so long, slid together into one clear image.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Clare stretched then exhaled as her back popped. Standing in front of her coffee maker was one of her favourite parts of the day. It was right next to the window overlooking her garden, and for the two minutes it took the water to boil and percolate, she didn’t have to think or do anything except enjoy the view.
Winter had technically started, but the day was still warm enough that she only needed a light jacket. The deciduous trees in her garden had all finished shedding their leaves, and their dead branches stretched into the sky.
“Sunday,” she mumbled and rubbed her sleeve over her eyes. Sunday was the best day of the week, no contest. Weekdays were spent working so that she could afford to enjoy her Sundays. Saturdays were for everything else she’d neglected during the week. Errands. Shopping. Cleaning. Visiting friends who were overdue for catch-ups. Sunday was for relaxing.
The coffee was ready. She took the mug out and inhaled. It was sharp but not too strong. She saved the really strong stuff for Mondays, when she needed energy. She didn’t mind waking up slowly on Sundays.
Clare made her way into the small study. The space wasn’t really big enough to be called a full room, but it was the most comfortable space in her house. She’d positioned a beanbag opposite the full-length window to
take advantage of the view over her garden. Clare flopped into the cushioned seat and reached for the thriller novel that waited on the little table beside her. She held her coffee close to her chest, where it acted as a miniature heater, as she opened the hardback to the bookmark.
Her phone buzzed. Clare pressed her lips together, looking mournfully at her novel, then placed the coffee to one side and rolled out of the seat. It was always tempting to ignore phone calls on Sundays, but she never did. The only people who had her personal phone number were very close friends and family. If they were calling at eight in the morning on a weekend, chances were it was important.
Unless it’s a telemarketer. Oh boy, for their sake, it had better not be.
She brushed loose hair out of her face as she picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Clare?” Beth often sounded stressed, depending on how difficult her work was being and whether anything had broken or gone wrong. But she sounded unusually strained that morning. “Clare, are you okay?”
“Of course I am.” Clare rested her hip on the kitchen bench so that she could stare out the window. “What’s wrong?”
Beth took a sharp, tight breath. “You haven’t turned on the TV this morning, have you?”
“No. It’s a Sunday.” Clare grinned. “And Sunday is for reading.”
“Not today, sweetheart. Turn the TV on.”
Bethany hadn’t called her sweetheart in years, not since Clare had fallen out of a tree as a teen and ended up in the emergency ward with a broken arm.
A sense of uncertainty caught up to her. She crossed into the cramped living room and began searching for a remote control amongst the cushions. Beth took another sharp breath and said, “I think maybe you should come and stay with me for a couple of days. Just in case.”
“Why? What’s happening?”
“I don’t know.” She sounded like she had started to cry. “No one knows. But… but…”
Clare gave up trying to find the remote. She jumped over the chair to press the button on the TV then crouched down in preparation to change the channel. She didn’t need to. Even though that station was supposed to be playing kids’ shows at that time in the morning, news coverage was splashed across the screen. Still holding the phone to her ear, Clare backed up until she could slide onto the couch.
The emblem in the corner of the screen identified it as a news stream from another station. The anchors sat pin straight, their faces holding no sign of amusement or lightheartedness. Clare knew the expression. It was the one they wore during serious segments like terrorist attacks, natural disasters, or war.
The man was speaking. Clare’s TV wasn’t large enough for her to be certain, but she thought she saw a bead of sweat on his forehead. “… in Denmark. We have also been advised that now large parts of Quebec have gone dark. Our own reporter, Greg Harrelson, is currently uncontactable. We are going to re-air the last footage we received from him. But we would like to caution viewers that what you are about to see may be distressing. Viewer discretion is advised.”
The screen changed. The new view showed a snow-swept city road lined with cars. Harsh orange light from streetlamps illuminated the scene. The image jostled violently as the person carrying the camera jogged.
“Beth?” Clare rubbed at the back of her neck. “What’s going on?”
She could hear what sounded like a different news broadcast in the background of Beth’s call. Beth was definitely crying now. “I don’t know. I don’t know. Cities are vanishing. I mean, they’re still there—we can see them—but no one can contact the people living there. Anyone who drives into them isn’t heard from again. They don’t know why yet, or what happened to them, or—”
Beth’s voice faded into the background as Clare focussed on her screen.
The reporter came into view. He was running, his grey hair sticking to his sweaty red forehead. “Up ahead is the so-called quiet zone.” He yelled to be heard over his pounding footsteps and ragged breaths. “Civilians in surrounding areas are being evacuated to Toronto. We are told that—”
He broke off as an explosion boomed in the distance. The camera jerked back as its bearer stopped running, and the screen swivelled away from the reporter’s shocked face and towards the skyline.
Flames bloomed above the silhouetted buildings. Red, gold, and ribbons of thick black smoke rose into the night. The reporter’s voice was uneven. “That—I think that was a plane. A plane just fell out of the sky. I, uh, the city’s power is gone. There may have been some kind of bombing. We are not sure yet. We’re going to try to—”
He looked over his shoulder. He seemed frozen. His body seized up as he stared at something beyond the camera’s view. Then he began backing away, motioning urgently to the cameraman. The frame swung to encapsulate the street behind them. Something was moving between the cars.
Then the frame changed again, this time exploding into a block of white as something bright arced across the sky like lightning. The reporter yelled incoherently. Then the camera tumbled, catching distorted fragments of the damp street and lightless buildings. A jagged line appeared across the screen as its lens broke.
Clare heard irregular footsteps followed by a cry. Then the streetlights above flickered and died, one by one, plunging the image into near darkness. That scene lasted for another thirty seconds. All Clare could see was starlight catching on the roofs of cars and the side of one building. Then the feed abruptly cut out.
The screen returned to the two stony-faced newsreaders. Neither spoke for a second, then the woman exhaled. “We are still waiting to reconnect communication with Greg Harrelson. Everyone here at QBC hopes for his safety and speedy extraction, as well as that of Thomas Strokes, who was operating the camera.”
Another stretch of silence filled the room. The woman shuffled, lifting herself an inch higher, and began speaking in a more energetic tone. Clare guessed someone must have been barking instructions into her earpiece. The man’s attention stayed fixed on the papers on his desk, his eyes dull.
“Some have speculated that this may be the beginning of World War Three. However, no country has claimed responsibility for the attacks at this time. We now have an updated list of quiet zones, as reported by social media and our sister stations in other countries.”
A map displayed on the screen. Large patches of red had been painted across it, signalling the dead areas. Clare bit her knuckle. The colour was spread across the globe—the US, the UK, Australia, Russia, Africa, East Asia. Some patches were small. Some would have covered tens of thousands of kilometres.
The woman began reading the names of areas that had lost contact. Clare finally realised that Beth was still talking into her ear.
“Clare, please, are you there? Say something.”
“I’m here.” She swallowed, leaning closer to the screen, trying to pinpoint the areas where she and Beth lived. She found their nearest city. It was red. But mercifully, the colour hadn’t encroached into the countryside yet.
“The uncontactable areas are spreading.” Beth’s voice was thick with tears. “And new ones keep appearing. Two news stations have already stopped broadcasting. The hosts were talking one minute, then the next, it was just static. I thought it was a joke at first. But Clare… maybe my bunker…”
“Yeah. Okay.” Clare rose out of her seat. “I’m on my way.”
She put the phone on speaker and tucked it into her front pocket as she jogged through her house. She hauled two large travel cases from her closet then began throwing clothes and toiletries into one. Her brain felt as though it were buzzing, and she struggled to think through what needed to be brought. Clothes would be important. A couple of novels, too, to stop the boredom from setting in. She grabbed two off her shelf indiscriminately. She left her technology—laptop, kettle, and hair dryer—where they were. The bunker’s power supplies would be limited. She couldn’t afford to bring things that would drain it. All the while, the humming living room TV blended into the fragments of ne
ws stories floating through the phone.
Clare hauled the luggage—one empty, one full—out into the living room. She then flipped the spare case open in the kitchen and began dredging her nonperishable supplies into it. “Have you spoken to Marnie yet?”
“No.” Bethany’s voice crackled, and Clare had to strain to make out what she said. “I phoned you first.”
“Call her. Let her know what’s happening. I’ll pick her up on my way through. There’s room for a third person in the bunker, isn’t there?”
“Yes. But she’s nearly two hours away from you.”
“It’s fine. It’s not even really that much out of my path. Call her. Make sure she’ll be ready.”
“All right.” The phone beeped as it was disconnected. Clare had filled the luggage case with as much food as it would hold and hauled it through the front door.
Her little red car waited outside. She hadn’t changed its wheels yet. There had been traces of frost and even one thin dusting of snow but nothing significant. The sky was clear. She didn’t think she would encounter any difficulties on the road to Bethany’s.
Both sets of luggage went into the back seat. She opened the car’s boot then ran back inside for the water. As she passed the TV, she kept one eye on the reports. The anchors were discussing the likelihood of chemical warfare.
She wanted to stay and hear what they said, but Beth had sounded frantic. The drive to her sister’s house would take five hours if the roads were clear. She could listen to the news on the way.
Clare dragged two large water jugs outside. As she nudged the swinging screen door open, she was assaulted with a blast of chilled air. She looked up. The sky had been blue when she’d made her coffee. It had since turned a bitter grey.
She frowned at it as she heaved the water into the boot, then she returned inside for another lot. She probably wouldn’t need the snow tyres, at least not on the way to Beth’s. If she ended up staying for a while, a few days or a few weeks, she might need them to get home.
