Creatures probed the clutter downstairs. They were spreading out, searching frantically. It would only be a matter of minutes, if that, until they worked their way up the stairs.
She knew she needed to focus, to be ready, but she couldn’t think. Dorran held her, but he was white. She knew he was making the same calculations she was. How long can we hold off the horde when they come up the stairs? How long until our muscles give out, until we’re overrun?
She tilted her head back, staring towards the ceiling, and caught sight of the round window above them. It had a latch to open. It was large enough to fit through… but even if the drop didn’t kill them, the creatures would do the job soon after.
The fog of grief and anger swamped her head, clouding her mind. She closed her eyes, trying to think through it. The lowest step of the stairs creaked. Clare opened her eyes. And she saw their chance.
“The window,” she hissed. She got to her knees, facing the glass. The sky had grown overcast as a storm brewed, but the field of snow outside was clear of everything except trails of footprints. Every hollow in the near vicinity had been drawn into the shed. She pulled on the handle, straining against the stiff metal, and wrenched open the frame. Freezing wind blew past her.
“Clare?” Dorran’s hand rested on her back, but he stayed facing the stairs.
The hollows were climbing. She tried to guess how far up. A third of the way. Maybe half. Soon, they would be able to look over the loft’s edge and see her and Dorran crouched against the back wall.
Clare crawled to the only piece of nice furniture in the space: the broken set of drawers that had been rejected from Winterbourne. She prised one of the drawers out, crept back to the window, and hurled the wood through.
The drawer created a heavy thump as it hit the snow outside. Instantly, the scrambling ceased. The creaking stairs fell silent. Then from the ground floor, the chattering began again.
Dorran had understood her plan. He was already at the wooden stand, silently easing another drawer out. He held it at the window for a second as he gauged the distance to the first drawer, then he threw it. His aim was good. The half-broken wood crunched horribly as it hit its target.
The noises below became eager. But this time, they were rushing out of the building. The sliding door rumbled as they forced their way through. Metal jangled as they scrabbled to get under the barbed wire. Clare already had a third drawer ready, and as the first hollows appeared below the window, she threw it.
“Now,” Dorran whispered. “Go. Hurry.”
They darted around the bones to reach the stairs. Clare paused on the landing just long enough to make sure that the ground floor was empty, then she rushed down, sticking close to the wall and rolling her feet to minimise the noise.
The monsters’ stench stuck in the back of her throat and made her instincts revolt. But the barn was empty. She reached the floor, Dorran so close behind her that she could hear his breathing, and ran for the open door.
Behind them, the radio continued to crackle. The noise dug into Clare’s nerves. She wanted to pick it up—to try to call Beth—but there was no time. The distraction bought them seconds, at best.
The hollows had forced a narrow gap in the door. Clare turned her body sideways and slipped through, then she held out a hand to pull Dorran out after her. Cold wind wrapped around her. Ahead, the mansion was lit for a split-second by lightning. The metal door was a minute away at a brisk walk; half that at a run. They hadn’t collected their snowshoes—or their masks. There was no time to go back.
The snow came up to Clare’s waist. Dorran went first, fording a path, but even with a channel dug out, Clare still struggled to stay upright. She kept her eyes fixed on Dorran’s back and her ears tuned to the world behind them. The radio’s crackle. The barn door, banging as the wind tugged at it. The incessant chattering, clicking noises as the beasts circled back around the barn.
Not far. Not far…
Winterbourne’s windows overlooked the field, blank and cold, dispassionate to their plight. The metal door stood out of the stone wall ahead, tantalisingly close.
Something snatched at Clare’s heels. Dorran sensed it before she did; she’d barely stumbled when he turned, swinging the pipe. It made a solid, metallic noise as it connected with the hollow’s skull. Lightning raced across the field, closer, harsh enough to blind her.
“Go!” He shoved her past him. The door was less than ten feet away. She fought through the snow, digging through the same path her snowshoes had compressed an hour before. Another thwack came close behind her. She was at the door. Shoving it open. Tumbling through. She got her feet back under herself and turned to the opening.
Dorran, teeth bared and eyes blazing, swung his weapon a final time, then he leapt back through the gap. Clare was ready. She forced the door shut, hurling her shoulder into the metal to make its aged hinges work. Two heavy thuds shook her as hollows impacted with the barrier. She pulled the latch to lock it.
“Are you all right?” Dorran bent over, panting, hands braced on his knees and his hair damp from melted snow. Tracks of blood ran down his neck and cheek from where the barbed wire had bitten him.
Clare nodded, then slid down the wall to crumple on the floor.
Dorran shucked off his jacket and discarded it, then he sat down beside her. She stared at her hands in her lap. The hollows were scrabbling at the other side of the door, but she didn’t care. The adrenaline was fading, and shock moved in. She felt numb.
Beth.
The
