Dorran swung his axe. A limb sprang free; a streak of thickened blood arced through the air. He kicked at another hand to force it back through. Another three scrabbling arms came to take its place.
How many are there?
Clare gasped as her boots scraped on the concrete. The gap widened. Dorran moved to Clare’s side, putting his shoulder against the door to keep it closed. The pressure on the other side was immense. Screams and the ceaseless chattering shook the room. Clare couldn’t think. She put her head down and pushed with all of her strength, trying to drive the door closed against the wall of flesh. Dorran flinched as fingers plucked at his arm. The hollows didn’t care that their limbs were being crushed. Their hunger and rage was mindless.
Mindless…
Clare’s eyes turned to the radio in the room’s corner. The door ground inwards an inch, and she leaned further into it to force it back. “Can you hold it?”
Dorran gave a short nod. Clare closed her eyes and stepped away from the door. She felt a stab of fear as the metal grated inwards, but Dorran dug his feet into the floor and forced it back. She could see muscles straining even under the jacket.
She darted around the abnormally long arms. The fingers caught at her as she ran past, scraping over her arm, and the screaming, chattering throng became louder as the limbs chased her. She dropped to her knees beside the radio and pressed the power button. It stayed dead.
“No, no, no…” She ran her fingers over the cracked plastic. Dorran knew how to repair the machine, but she didn’t. She turned it over and saw a dark hole in its back.
It wasn’t broken. Its batteries were missing. She put her head down close to the ground and searched for them. Two were under the table. A third had rolled near the couch. Clare snatched them up and forced them into the radio with shaking hands.
“Clare…” Dorran strained against the door, but it was bowing inwards an inch at a time. Faces pressed into the gaps between the arms, hissing. Jaws clicked as they rolled in their sockets. Demented eyes glinted in the torch’s light.
“Almost,” Clare called back, but the word became choked in her throat. She could barely see through the mask. There. The final battery was half-hidden under a sheet of paper. Clare could have cried as she grabbed it. The battery slid into its slot, and she scrambled back to Dorran as she turned on the radio.
One of the hollows spilt through the door. Its torso stretched forward, its arms swinging towards Clare. Its hips had become pinned in the gap. Dorran grunted as he forced the door back an inch, and Clare thought she heard the hollow’s bones fracture. She grabbed his axe off the floor. It was heavier than she’d expected. She lifted, staggered, and brought it down over the hollow’s head.
She’d been trying to decapitate it, but her aim was off. The skull split horribly as the axe embedded in it. Clear cranial fluids ran out of the cavity, dripping down the handle. Clare yelped and released her hold on it. The hollow stayed upright for two more seconds, its eyes rocking wildly in its skull, then it slumped forward, limp.
Clare snatched up the radio and put her back against the door next to Dorran. Desperate, she fumbled over the box’s settings. It hadn’t been left on Clare’s frequency. Beth must have been searching for another broadcaster before she opened the door.
To her horror, new noises came from the bodies packed against the other side of the door. Wet noises. Chewing noises. The dead hollow shuddered, then its body began to slide back behind the door.
“Come on. Come on.”
The door shuddered, making it nearly impossible to control the little dials. Clare shoved back, digging her feet into the ground. Dorran gasped with exhaustion. Then Clare finally got the right setting and turned the switch to start the broadcast.
The radio’s pair waited back in her car. And it was turned on. Clare tapped against the microphone, knowing the sounds would be magnified. It wasn’t enough, though. She tapped harder, scratching her gloved finger over the fine mesh. Then she lifted it to her lips and screamed into the microphone, “Go away!”
Clare heard her own voice, ragged and full of fear, projected from the car on the street. The chattering wails abruptly fell silent, and the roving arms fell still, their fingers still hooked around the door, splayed over the metal walls and the floor.
Clare cupped one hand around her mouth to minimise what noise escaped into the room and spoke into the radio, starting at a whisper and gradually increasing the volume. “Get out of here. Get out of my sister’s bunker. Out of my sister’s yard. Leave us alone. Get out!”
The arms withdrew, the thin skin scraping off against the door’s edge. The chattering carried up the stairs as the hollows scuttled over each other to get outside. The bunker door shut, and the latch clicked, sealing it. Dorran took off his mask, and Clare quickly followed.
“Smart girl,” he said.
Clare tried to smile as she stared at the black box cradled in her hands. “It got them away from us. But now they’ll be gathered around the car, instead.”
“Only as long as they can hear you.” He pointed to the radio, and Clare turned it off. There was no sense in drawing hollows from the rest of the suburb, as well.
Her legs had no strength left. She let herself slide down until she sat on the floor. A second later, Dorran followed, and together, they stared across the ruined bunker.
Chapter Thirty-Four
They sat on the cold concrete floor with their
