Clare stopped at the intersection and looked in both directions. It was impossible to hear or see clearly through the mask and the rain. Motion drew her attention towards a store window, but it was only a plastic shopping bag caught on the shattered glass and swinging as the wind tugged at it.
Maybe the city won’t be as bad as I thought. Maybe the quiet zone moved over it very early in the morning, and most of the hollows are trapped inside their homes.
Helexis Tower should be a block to their right and five ahead, if she hadn’t lost her orientation. Straight ahead, the road was littered with remnants of a broken jewellery store. A car had run through the corner window, and sparkling glass shards were jammed into cracks in the road. Rings, necklaces, and bracelets, all worth a small fortune, lay ignored among the once-white stands and scraps of pamphlets. Clare cautiously approached the street. Glass crunched under her boots. She stopped beside a streetlamp, scanning the environment, breathing heavily.
A hollow chattered, but the sound was muffled and came from above. One of the apartment dwellers. They turned right, circling the wreck of the car that had broken the store, and followed the sidewalk.
That road had been closed off to cars and converted into a market. Clumps of something black and sticky stuck to bright sheets of plastics. Decayed flower bouquets, she thought. Clare recognised food stands, including one that had been knocked over. Its vat of deep-frying oil had spilt across the road, but the worst of it had already been washed away, and what remained was turning dark as it absorbed grime and grit. Beyond that, a collection of mannequins stood guard. A telephone box had been set up as a kitschy changing room for a street fashion display.
The cluttered stalls made Clare anxious, but the road was free from cars. Dorran led the way, weaving between the stands. Something scraped beneath Clare’s shoe. She looked down, expecting more glass, but saw she’d stepped on a gold coin. A woman’s purse lay nearby, dropped mid-transaction. The markets must have been open at the time the quiet zone had passed through.
But the streets seem deserted. Are the masks working? Did something chase the hollows away? Or are we just lucky? It feels like we’ve already pushed our luck as far as it will go, but I won’t complain if it holds even a little while longer.
Dorran’s mask kept moving in steady arcs, scanning the streets, but Clare noticed he kept glancing up for a second at a time before pulling his attention back down. He hadn’t seen the city before, she realised. Or any city. She didn’t know what the family’s Gould estate was like, but if it was as secluded as Winterbourne, his only exposure to the outside world would have been through books, stories from his uncles, and the views he had on their bi-yearly pilgrimage between the properties. Her heart ached for him. She wished she could have shown him the world the way it had been before the hollows.
Sticky noises rose from their shoes as they stepped through the oil. Up ahead, the mannequins blocked their path. Clare hated the way the bald heads were tilted at angles, as though listening to the rain. Hands were raised into inscrutable gestures. Smooth indents marked the places where their eyes belonged. Their poses were elegant, but their clothes weren’t. Bohemian styles and pastel shades were discoloured. They hung off their mannequins awkwardly, wet, sad, and torn. Clare wondered where the rips had come from. Humans grasping and writhing in agony as they tasted the stinging air Madeline Morthorne talked about? Hollows scrambling after their prey? More than half of the statues were overturned, their poses still elegantly classy as they lay facedown in the puddles.
Clare shivered as they passed the figures. They didn’t have faces, but they still looked too human. Then behind them, hinges whined. Clare froze. Their luck had run out. A low, sickeningly familiar chattering noise floated through the air.
She and Dorran turned. The changing booth, a repurposed telephone box with blacked-out windows, had an Occupied sign hanging from the door. The wooden plaque rattled as the door swung outwards.
Chapter Forty-One
The woman inside the booth fixed Clare with her one remaining eye. It was bulging and red, and Clare thought she knew the cause. Sharp bony spikes, like stalactites, filled the empty socket. She’d lost her blouse and pants, but her business jacket still clung to her narrow shoulders. It flapped as she lurched forward. One leg had grown longer than the other, giving her an exaggerated limp. The bloodshot eye moved from Clare to Dorran, and the jaw widened as she chattered.
Dorran tapped Clare’s forearm. It was a small touch to shake her out of her shock and get her to move. She pressed her lips together and gave a tiny nod, and together, they began backing away.
The hollow took another staggering step forward. The jaw worked, and her head tilted curiously. Clare risked a glance down to check that the gloves were still tucked into the jacket sleeves and her socks covered any trace of skin. She was hidden under the layers of clothes. But the hollow was growing excited. Its chattering became louder, and the jaw moved faster, swivelling in loosened sockets, as she stumbled forward recklessly.
Can it tell we’re human? Can it hear our breathing? Smell us? Recognise the way we walk?
Dorran gave another subtle tap. They were backing away, but the hollow’s unsteady gait was closing the gap. They needed to run. She shot Dorran a final look, wishing she could pick out some expression under the mask. He tilted his head in her direction, the only response he could give. Then they turned as one and began running.
Mannequins skittered across the street as they were kicked out of the way. The hollow howled. Through their own pounding footsteps
