Voices in the Snow

by Darcy Coates

  And he was still in the mansion, trapped with the creatures. They had found a way to hide, and they were clearly reluctant to be seen. But they were there, and it was only a matter of time before they turned on him. She had to go back. Even if she couldn’t convince him of what she’d seen, she needed to find some way to keep him safe.

  Clare turned towards the forest separating her from Winterbourne Hall. In the space between the closest trees, two round, bright eyes stared at her.

  The world seemed to slow down. A fleck of snow spiralled past, twirling in the gentle wind, taking an eternity to reach the ground.

  The man from her memories crouched among the pines. His eyes were huge and staring. He’d lost the remainder of his clothes, but he seemed wholly unaware of his nakedness and the cold that had turned his fingers and toes black.

  One hand was spread on the ground, fingers splayed for balance. The other was balled into a clawlike fist. It reminded Clare of a pigeon she’d seen with a broken foot—and a moment later, she realised that was exactly what it was. The fingers were broken from being slammed in the car door. They’d curled into a twisted mess of flesh and shattered bone, but he still walked on the hand.

  That wasn’t the only change. The tips of his collarbones had jutted out from his hollow chest wall. His ribs seemed to have sunken in. When he moved, his hip bones strained against the thin layer of skin covering them, seemingly threatening to split it.

  There was no way he should have still been alive. But he was. And his lips pulled back from receding gums as he stared at Clare.

  No. Please. Not again.

  She ran, kicking up a plume of snow as she plunged back onto the road and aimed for the bank of trees opposite him. A horrible clattering noise rose from the forest. Clare looked up. Two shapes moved through the trees, leaping from bough to bough—a large one with long hair and something small. A child still wearing the scraps of a brightly coloured shirt.

  Clare twisted away and tried to run along the road. It was bare except for the endless expanse of snow. She was too exposed. She had to get to the forest—either side—and find something to use as a weapon. Something to shield herself with.

  A noise came from her side. The man raced parallel to her, moving on all fours like a broken cat. He lunged at Clare, his mouth open, and she gasped as she pulled back, out of his reach. He skidded on the snow, trying to right himself, as the woman leapt out of a tree.

  Clare had no choice—she reversed her direction, racing back to the car. She could hear the creatures chattering behind her as they followed. Weariness dragged her down. Her mouth was so dry that every breath felt like swallowing sandpaper. But fear kept her moving. The healing cuts on her stomach and leg ached, a threat of what was to come if she was too slow. She hit the open car door, swung around it, and barrelled inside.

  The car jolted as the creatures impacted it. The door was already bent and wouldn’t close. Clare just tried to pull it as near to shut as she could. Then she leapt across the bloodied driver’s seat and fell into the passenger’s side.

  Metal cried as the door was wrenched back open. Clare grabbed the passenger’s door handle and shoved. She tumbled through the hole then kicked at the door, smacking it shut in the creatures’ faces.

  Both the man and woman had tried to follow her through the car. They pressed against the closed door, fingers and teeth clacking against the glass. Neither tried to use the handle. Like she’d thought, they’d lost their humanity and, with it, their intelligence.

  Clare struggled onto shaking feet and clutched at the closest tree. Her heart felt ready to burst, but she couldn’t rest. The car wouldn’t contain the creatures for long. She checked that she still had the radio tucked into her jacket then turned.

  Deep snow covered the forest floor in that part of the woods, and Clare struggled over trees and between trunks. She passed a low, dead branch, half detached from its tree, and gave it a wrench to snap it off. It was heavy and unwieldy, but it would work as a weapon. Her main priority had to be getting back to shelter as quickly as she could.

  A shriek made her freeze. She looked back to where the car was barely visible through the forest. It no longer rocked as the monsters tried to free themselves. She couldn’t see through the window, but she thought it was empty.

  They had gotten out faster than she’d hoped. Clare started running, praying she was moving in the right direction to reach the clearing and Winterbourne. She was struggling, though. And she thought she could hear more noises—more of the creaking, scratching sounds of branches being bowed as a creature clambered through them.

  Something grabbed her foot, and Clare yelled as she fell. She rolled onto her back. Bones rippled under the man’s emaciated skin as he clawed at her leg, shredding her pants with his too-sharp nails.

  Clare swung her branch at him. The blackened wood hit him squarely on his jaw, and his head rocked back. It didn’t stop him, though. He kept digging at her torso. Scrabbling. Tearing. Clare felt the sting of cut flesh and swung her weapon again.

  That time, the contact was vicious enough to knock him off. His broken hand spasmed as he tumbled back. Clare tried to rise to her feet so she could put some distance between them, but another figure hit her before she could move.

  Long hair caught in Clare’s face. She gagged as its rancid scent choked her. The creature bit into her wrist, and Clare screamed.

  Then, suddenly, the pressure was off her. Clare was vaguely aware of a heavy cracking sound and a blur of motion. Then a voice yelled something.

  “Ah!” Clare hissed in pain as she tried to open her eyes. A hand touched her shoulder, and she thrashed away, trying to escape it.

  “It’s all right! It’s just me!” Dorran crouched over her, one hand on her shoulder, the other holding a bloody shovel. His eyes were wide with fear, and his breathing was ragged. Then he looked up, and his expression tightened as he swung the shovel again.

  It hit the man, who had been crawling over the closest snowbank. His head snapped back then rolled as the neck broke.

  Clare waited for him to drop. But he didn’t. The man’s head had tilted completely back. It faced the sky, his eyes wide and jaw slack. The back of his head rested between his shoulder blades. The skin on his neck, stretched taunt, quivered as he tried to make a noise. But he stayed upright, arms and legs spread wide to hold himself up, and began scuttling towards them.

  Dorran made a horrified choking noise. He stepped over Clare and swung again. The shovel hit the man’s shoulder. The opposite shoulder blade finally cut through the skin, unleashing a glut of dark blood. The bone had grown sharp, almost knifelike, and the skin flaps jiggled around it like gory jelly.

  A chattering noise made Clare turn. The woman was coming back. Her broken jaw still hung loose, and the black maw of her mouth stretched horribly wide. Her hair had fallen out, save for a few sparse clumps, and like the man, she had grown bone thin. All that remained from her prior identity was a scrap of floral dress dangling from her neck.

  Dorran still faced the man. The second creature was almost on them. Clare grabbed her branch, but instead of swinging, she pointed it straight ahead and pushed it forwards to meet the woman.

  The sharp tip plunged into the woman’s chest, between her breasts, making sickening cracking noises as the brittle bones broke. The impact forced the air out of Clare as she was knocked to the ground.

  The woman lurched back, standing tall, her lips widening then pursing again. The stick protruded from her chest like a pole. Then her eyes locked on Clare, and she pitched forward. Clare yelled and lifted her feet to protect herself. The stick hit the sole of one shoe, and Clare kicked as hard as she could.

  The branch made a ghastly sluicing noise as it cut through the woman’s body. The sharpened end poked out of her back, drenched in blood. The woman staggered then righted herself. Clare felt a moment of sheer horror as she thought even that would not be enough. Then the woman tumbled and fell facedown onto the snow. Her body twi
tched twice then went still.

  Clare turned. Dorran stood a few paces away, panting. His own assailant lay crumpled on the ground. What had once been a head was a bloody paste. Bone fragments and brain matter mixed into the snow.

  Dorran dropped the shovel and turned to Clare. He took an unsteady step towards her then dropped to his knees, holding out his hands.

  She crawled to him and tried not to cry as he pulled her close against his chest. One hand tightened around her back, clutching her desperately, and the other stroked her hair. “I am so sorry,” he whispered.

  Clare held him in a fierce embrace. He was sweaty and shaky, but so was she.

  “I am sorry for doubting you.” Desperate words tumbled out of him, and she thought he might have been practicing them on the walk through the forest. “I am sorry for yelling. And I am especially sorry for telling you to get out. I did not mean to make you leave the house. I did not want you to leave. I was not thinking rationally.”

  She shook her head, trying to tell him it was all right. Words had become choked in her throat. The argument in the garden felt like it had happened half a lifetime ago. She didn’t care about it anymore. She was just grateful Dorran had come after her.

  He pulled back. Dark eyes searched her face. One hand brushed over her cheek then ran over her neck, which was scratched. Then he looked down and saw the blood dripping off her wrist, and his eyes tightened. “You’re hurt.”

  “Not bad.” She tried to hide it under her jacket sleeve. “I can’t really feel it anymore.”

  He picked up her hand, gently peeled back the jacket, and examined it. Then he looked around them, first at the impaled woman then at the man he’d killed. His composure wavered, then he blinked rapidly, and it was restored. “We need to get back to the house.”

  “Yes.” The shock was starting to fade, and Clare was beginning to feel the implications of what had happened. “Yes—quickly. These two aren’t the only ones.”

  He tightened his arms around her and lifted her as he stood. “Can you walk?”

  She thought so. “Yes.”

  “Stay close to me.” Dorran scooped the bloodied shovel off the ground. Clare’s radio had fallen out of her jacket during the scuffle. She picked it up and prayed it hadn’t been damaged as she tucked it back into place.

  Dorran then put his spare arm around Clare’s back. He paused for a moment, his eyebrows pulled low as he listened to the forest. Then he nodded to her and began leading them between the trees.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The air felt unnaturally still. All Clare could hear were the crunching footsteps and their gasping breaths. She tried to move quickly to keep up with Dorran, but her legs weren’t obeying her commands properly. Dorran matched her pace, though. When she started to struggle, he looped his arm under hers so that she could lean on him. His eyes never stopped scanning for movement among the patchy white-and-black landscape.

  Clare’s mind began to make connections. Shortly before driving into Banksy Forest, she’d passed the two cars pulled over onto the side of the road. The doors had been left open, and the rear seat of the larger car had held an assortment of toys. One had been a distinctive caterpillar-like creature suspended from a hook above the window. She was sure the same design had been emblazoned onto the monstrous child’s shirt. It had been discoloured and torn in the weeks spent in the forest, but it was unmistakable.

  Nausea surprised Clare, and she stumbled to a halt as she tried not to be sick. Dorran supported her, one arm around her and the other rubbing her shoulder as she regained her composure.

  “All right?” he asked.

  She nodded and fixed her eyes on the path ahead.

  The creatures were like something out of a fever dream. But it was a hundred times worse to know that they had once been real people not much different than her. They had been in their car, trying to travel to safety, to seek shelter from the events sweeping the world.

  Clare didn’t know why they had been caught and she had been spared. She had the awful idea that it came down to dumb luck. They had just been on that stretch of road at the wrong time.

  She wished she knew how it had happened. Whatever it was. A gas, maybe. A beam. Some kind of radiation. She didn’t know. She wasn’t certain she would ever know. All of those thoughts could be saved for later when they were out of the forest.

  The trees creaked. Clare’s heart dropped as she looked behind them. Dorran had heard it, too, and he craned his neck. The environment was still and quiet. He waited a second, then he tucked the shovel under his arm, bent, and picked Clare up.

  She gasped as the earth was pulled away from her feet. The dizziness grew worse, and she had to squeeze her eyes closed until it abated. “I… I can still walk.”

  “Faster this way,” he muttered.

  He was right. Clare knew it must be taxing him, but he increased his speed to a jog. The motion was smoother than she’d expected. He loped through the forest, his steps even and reliable, his head ducked to avoid the lowest branches, and Clare tucked tightly against his shoulder.

  She thought she could see some lightness ahead. Inside the forest, even the snow seemed to take on a dingy shade. They had to be facing the clearing surrounding Winterbourne.

  The creaking noise grew louder. Clare looked up and saw a spindly shape scuttling through the boughs. Its limbs were far too long. Its arm span must have been nearly eight feet, and it was using its increased reach to lurch from branch to branch like a deformed monkey.

  “Dorran—”

  “I see it.” He kept his head down but tilted to the side, one eye on the trees above them. Each breath sounded painful and raw, but his speed didn’t slow.

  They broke through the trees at the edge of Banksy Forest. Winterbourne Hall sat ahead, huddled in its blankets of white. Its dead, cold windows followed their movements like eyes. The distance between them and the mansion seemed immense.

  Dorran staggered as the snow thickened, and he sank into it up to his knees.

  “I had snowshoes,” Clare said.

  “Yes.” Each word was punctuated by a gasp. “Me as well. Where?”

  She scanned the forest’s edge, trying to pinpoint the place she’d entered. Tracks marked the clear blanket of snow, arcing from Winterbourne across the field until they terminated at the forest’s edge nearly forty paces away. “There!”

  Dorran still watched the woman above them. She’d stopped moving and was crouched in one of the trees above their heads. Bony knees jutted out wide, and her arms dangled as she watched them. Clare couldn’t see her expression, but her eyes flashed in the low light.

  She was more cautious than her companions had been. That worried Clare. The woman seemed to have retained at least part of her mind—whether it was intelligence or purely instinctual, Clare didn’t know. But it made the woman unpredictable.

  Clare could feel Dorran weighing up the risk of going for the snowshoes versus trying to run across the field. The battle lasted for only a second. He turned and stepped back into the woods, where he could walk along the edge more easily than wading through the snow.

  The woman followed them. A tremor ran through Clare as she realised the long-armed creature wasn’t alone. Chattering, whispering noises echoed out from between the trees. A new pair of eyes glistened from around a trunk. She tried to count the creatures, but it was hard to follow the motion in the tangle of black branches.

  Dorran reemerged from the forest’s edge. He’d judged the distance well and came out almost beside the snowshoes. There was only one pair, though. He lowered Clare to the ground then swung the shovel around to hold it defensively. “Put them on.”

  “What about you?”

  “I need you to trust me.” He didn’t move, but his eyes continuously roved across the forest. “I can keep you safe. But you will need to run for the house.”

  She swallowed. “Who will keep you safe? You can’t fight those things alone.”

  “We do not have ti
me to argue.”

  “Then let me help.”

  The corners of his lips twitched. “Ah, Clare. I will let you win as many arguments as you like once we are back in the house. But you must trust me, just this once. Put the shoes on. Run. Do not look back.”

  Despite the smile, she could sense how tense he was. Sweat glistened on his forehead as he faced the forest. The denizens were creeping closer, growing bolder. There were at least five of them. She threw the shoes down and began strapping them on.

  “You have to promise you’re going to make it back.” The words choked her as she struggled to tie the shoes with shaking hands. “I’m not living in that house without you. I’m not dealing with… this without you. So you’ve got to be safe. Okay?”

  He stayed facing the forest, his feet braced, standing between her and the chattering in the trees. “I will. Now go. Run.”

  Clare pulled on the last of her energy to race across the field. The snowshoes were unwieldy. They threatened to tangle her, to trip her, and she kept her eyes fixed on her feet as she ran.

  Snarling noises came from behind her, but when she tried to turn her head to see what had happened, she nearly lost her balance. The thwack of a shovel hitting something solid echoed through the cold air.

  He wants me to trust him. I can. I will. She put her head down and focussed on moving towards the house. In the distance, the sky had darkened as another storm developed. It would be the second in two days.

  Please be safe, Dorran. Please, know what you’re doing.

  She heard the crack of breaking wood followed by a scream. That was almost enough to stop her. But the scream had a guttural, animalistic undertone that told her it hadn’t come from Dorran.

  Clare reached the end of the field and leapt into the snow-coated courtyard. Her head buzzed from the exertion, but she was close. The dark front door was visible ahead, half buried under the snow.

  Thunder crackled in the distance. When she’d left her old home, the news reports had talked about erratic weather. She guessed that was what had come over the property the past few weeks—unpredictable switches of storms, hail, and snow, all encapsulated in abnormally low temperatures.