When the car didn’t arrive, Marnie would have rolled up her sleeves and done what she did best: look after herself. She’d hammered the boards into the windows. She’d probably ensured her chickens were outside, just in case she didn’t make it through the day to give them food.
The quiet zones—the patches of lost contact that resulted in an area being infested with the hollows—had started in the cities and gradually moved outwards. Marnie’s remote farmstead would have missed the first waves. How long did she have? Two, three hours? Half a day? And what happened once it finally caught up with her?
“Clare—”
The word was a whisper in her ear. Dorran’s hand fixed over her shoulder and tightened. He began to pull her back.
Clare heard it too. Sounds coming from deeper in the house. Dragging. Shuffling.
No. No. No. Please, no, not this.
Something shifted at the end of the hallway. A narrow slat of light passed over it, glancing over a familiar floral blouse. Marnie’s grey hair, normally fluffy, lay limp against her head. Her head had flattened as though squashed. Bones, rounded and large, made her skin bulge out. Bones around her chin. Bones around her cheeks. And the largest bone, the one on her forehead, extended forward so far that the swollen skin half covered her eyes beneath.
Her eyes were the worst part. The lids drooped. They were bloodshot. It was as though their colour had been drained. But they were still Marnie’s eyes. Broken, damaged, distorted, but still Marnie.
“No.” The sound choked in Clare’s throat, along with her air. She felt dizzy. A ringing noise filled her ears. She couldn’t look away.
Marnie shuffled towards them. Her body was swollen, skin stretched to bursting point, bright red and shiny. The clothes, half torn, clung to her and swung about her with every hobbling step.
Her mouth opened. A deep, mournful bellow spilled out, shaking the skin around her throat. Her steps were uneven, lurching. A string of saliva fell over the lower lip, spilling onto the stains already coating her blouse. Engorged fingers reached forward, fumbling and grasping at air.
Dorran was speaking to her in short, sharp phrases. She couldn’t catch any of them. Her legs felt like they were made of paper and ready to crumble under the weight of what she was seeing. Marnie’s slow, shuffling steps were growing faster. She spilled into the entryway, her shoulders knocking trinkets off the closest shelves. Then Dorran’s arm moved around Clare’s waist and dragged her back, through the door, into the outside. Marnie’s lips shivered as she released another bellow. It sounded mournful. Pained.
Dorran slammed the door.
“No, no, no.” Clare dropped her crowbar and clasped her head in both hands as hot tears spilled out.
She’d known Marnie was likely dead. But she’d never properly been able to face the idea that her aunt might have become a hollow. It was worse than death. It was barbaric. Torture. She dropped to her knees, fingers digging into her scalp.
“Clare.” Dorran’s voice was gentle but held an undercurrent of urgency. He crouched beside her, close enough for her to feel his warmth. “We have to go, Clare.”
Marnie reached the door. Her fingers, painfully swollen, began to scrabble against it. Clare could hear the phlegmy, gasping breaths underneath.
“We have to go.” Dorran tried to pull her up, but she staggered.
Her mind felt like it was crumbling. Like a rock that had been squeezed too hard, fragments splintering off, cracks digging deeper, an insane idea entered. Maybe they could go back to that morning, just go to sleep, and when she woke up, she would be back to a point where there was still hope to look forward to. A world where Marnie was merely dead.
Dorran half carried, half dragged her towards the car. She could feel the stress bleeding out of him as he eased her into the passenger seat. Her door shut with a firm snap, then he took his seat beside her. He didn’t try to start the car.
Clare buckled over, palms pressed into her forehead, as she tried not to wail. That was my aunt. The thought swirled around in her mind, refusing to give her peace. That was my dear aunt. My aunt who loved her goats. My aunt who baked me cakes and sang out of tune to her favourite songs on the radio. My aunt who never had a harsh word to say about anyone.
Dorran stroked her back but didn’t try to interrupt her grief. She could feel him watching the house, though. Being so close to a hollow was making him uneasy.
That’s all she is now. A hollow.
Before, Clare had been able to separate the creatures from who they had once been. It wasn’t hard. They barely looked human. They were like some kind of monster out of a video game. Something she could hate. Something she could kill.
But this was Marnie. Not a hollow. Not a monster. Marnie. And she was in pain.
Clare had seen it in her face, heard it in her bellows. Her skin was bulging, filled with fluid, ready to burst. It was agony for her. And she no longer had a human mind to comprehend what was happening. She didn’t understand it. But she was trapped there and would remain trapped there, suffering. For how long?
“We have to kill her.” Clare lifted her head. Her voice was hoarse. She thought she might have been screaming, but she couldn’t remember the noise, only feel the rawness in her throat. “I—I have to. She’s in so much pain—”
Dorran looked back towards the door. Beneath the radio’s crackles, beneath Clare’s ragged gasps, she thought she could still hear the sad digging of fingers at the door.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Dorran said, “I’ll do it.”
“I can’t ask that of you.” Clare shook her head, but at the same time, a voice in the back of her mind whispered, If he
