I came for you, Beth. I’m sorry it wasn’t sooner.
Down the side of the house, moving quickly and rolling their feet to minimise noise on the rough pebble path, Dorran and Clare hung close together. A low, steady chattering noise floated across the fence and manicured lawns. It wasn’t too close, not yet, but still closer than Clare would have liked.
A second latched gate opened into the backyard. Trees, shrubs, and flowers, Beth’s pride and joy, filled the area. They were looking worse for wear, just like everything else in the new world. But many of them were still green. It was a little spark of joy in Clare’s heart.
At the garden’s back, between two twisting crape myrtles, was the bunker. Its entrance was discreet, just a square metal door standing between the trees. A concrete tunnel behind it disappeared underground at a ninety-degree angle. The door was closed.
“Okay.” The lump in her throat was choking her, but she squared her shoulders. Seeing the shut door answered the question that had plagued her since she’d lost the radio in Winterbourne’s shed. Beth had chosen suffocation over death at the hollows’ hands.
Stay with the plan. The longer you spend out here, the more danger you’re putting the both of you in. See inside the bunker. It’s the only way you can be certain. But no matter what you find in there, you’re turning around immediately and going back to the car. There isn’t time to bury her. You can grieve on the drive home.
Beth had kept a spare key for the bunker in case Clare ever needed to use it in an emergency. When Beth had shown her where to find it, Clare had tried to turn it into a joke about paranoia. Now, she was only grateful for her sister’s forethought. She knelt at the stack of pots running along the back wall and pulled out the second-largest one. Wood louse and tiny pale worms squirmed away as she turned the pot over. Taped on the underside was a discoloured silver key.
Dorran stayed in the garden’s centre, turning in a slow circle as he watched the surrounding wooden fences and the main gate. Clare moved to the bunker’s door. She was shaking. Tears stung her face behind her mask.
See inside the bunker then leave.
She made to slot the key into the lock and felt a jolt of shock as the door creaked. Clare pressed her fingers to the cold metal and pushed. The door drifted inwards. Someone had opened the door then carefully closed it behind themselves.
Beth. So, you chose to let them in after all.
She felt Dorran watching her but wasn’t able to meet his gaze. A screaming, chattering wail came from somewhere near the road. Clare shook her head. She couldn’t afford to be wasting time. She stepped into the stairwell, taking a short, sharp breath.
The smell was immediate and repulsive. The stink of urine. The sour scent that she’d come to associate with hollows. And beneath it, the sweetly poisonous tang of rotting flesh.
I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to see her dead.
But she had to. They had risked their lives to get to the bunker. Clare took another step down. The metal stairs echoed under her feet. Clare felt for the light switch on the stairwell’s wall then remembered the generator had died. The plastic switch turned uselessly under her fingers. She continued on.
The pit below was perfectly dark. Thin light—tinted red as the failing sun struggled to press through choking clouds—came through the open door and created an insipid rectangle of illumination at the base of the stairs. Inside that were three small drops of something dark. After another step, Clare staggered against the wall as the smell became worse. She was nearly choking on it. The air was stale and seemed to stick to the inside of Clare’s lungs. Another three steps, taken too fast, and she was nearly at the base of the stairs. The drops of blood were clearer. Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness. Slowly, she turned her gaze towards the rest of the room.
Tins and bottles lay on the floor. A small pile of clothes had been discarded in one corner. The couch in the centre of the room was lumpier than Clare remembered it being. Near the stairwell was the TV, an old-fashioned boxy shape with a DVD player. Clare still remembered the films Beth had bought for her bunker. Her “I’ll never get tired of these” collection, all cheery romcoms and slice-of-life series.
Clare stopped at the base of the stairs, straining to see through the gloom. The bunker was cold, and her skin prickled. Dorran had remained at the top of the stairs, standing guard, but now he followed. His footsteps seemed to beat in time with her heart. She turned left. Beth had said she had torches. A cylindrical shape rested on the small table opposite the TV. Clare grasped it with shaking, sweating hands and felt for the button. She found it. Her little circle of light exploded over the opposite wall.
“Oh,” Clare moaned.
Beth’s tiny bunker was in chaos. The metal shelf that held her food and water had been knocked down. Its corner rested against the table, and its contents were spilled across the floor. The couch had appeared lumpy. Clare now saw why. Something had cut into its fabric, and the deep slashes spilled billowing stuffing.
Shiny dents marred the metal walls. The bathroom door lay in splinters on the floor. Scraps of papers were everywhere—on the floor, on the tables, and moving in little
