Something grabbed her foot, and Clare yelled as she fell. She rolled onto her back. Bones rippled under the man’s emaciated skin as he clawed at her leg, shredding her pants with his too-sharp nails.
Clare swung her branch at him. The blackened wood hit him squarely on his jaw, and his head rocked back. It didn’t stop him, though. He kept digging at her torso. Scrabbling. Tearing. Clare felt the sting of cut flesh and swung her weapon again.
That time, the contact was vicious enough to knock him off. His broken hand spasmed as he tumbled back. Clare tried to rise to her feet so she could put some distance between them, but another figure hit her before she could move.
Long hair caught in Clare’s face. She gagged as its rancid scent choked her. The creature bit into her wrist, and Clare screamed.
Then, suddenly, the pressure was off her. Clare was vaguely aware of a heavy cracking sound and a blur of motion. Then a voice yelled something.
“Ah!” Clare hissed in pain as she tried to open her eyes. A hand touched her shoulder, and she thrashed away, trying to escape it.
“It’s all right! It’s just me!” Dorran crouched over her, one hand on her shoulder, the other holding a bloody shovel. His eyes were wide with fear, and his breathing was ragged. Then he looked up, and his expression tightened as he swung the shovel again.
It hit the man, who had been crawling over the closest snowbank. His head snapped back then rolled as the neck broke.
Clare waited for him to drop. But he didn’t. The man’s head had tilted completely back. It faced the sky, his eyes wide and jaw slack. The back of his head rested between his shoulder blades. The skin on his neck, stretched taunt, quivered as he tried to make a noise. But he stayed upright, arms and legs spread wide to hold himself up, and began scuttling towards them.
Dorran made a horrified choking noise. He stepped over Clare and swung again. The shovel hit the man’s shoulder. The opposite shoulder blade finally cut through the skin, unleashing a glut of dark blood. The bone had grown sharp, almost knifelike, and the skin flaps jiggled around it like gory jelly.
A chattering noise made Clare turn. The woman was coming back. Her broken jaw still hung loose, and the black maw of her mouth stretched horribly wide. Her hair had fallen out, save for a few sparse clumps, and like the man, she had grown bone thin. All that remained from her prior identity was a scrap of floral dress dangling from her neck.
Dorran still faced the man. The second creature was almost on them. Clare grabbed her branch, but instead of swinging, she pointed it straight ahead and pushed it forwards to meet the woman.
The sharp tip plunged into the woman’s chest, between her breasts, making sickening cracking noises as the brittle bones broke. The impact forced the air out of Clare as she was knocked to the ground.
The woman lurched back, standing tall, her lips widening then pursing again. The stick protruded from her chest like a pole. Then her eyes locked on Clare, and she pitched forward. Clare yelled and lifted her feet to protect herself. The stick hit the sole of one shoe, and Clare kicked as hard as she could.
The branch made a ghastly sluicing noise as it cut through the woman’s body. The sharpened end poked out of her back, drenched in blood. The woman staggered then righted herself. Clare felt a moment of sheer horror as she thought even that would not be enough. Then the woman tumbled and fell facedown onto the snow. Her body twitched twice then went still.
Clare turned. Dorran stood a few paces away, panting. His own assailant lay crumpled on the ground. What had once been a head was a bloody paste. Bone fragments and brain matter mixed into the snow.
Dorran dropped the shovel and turned to Clare. He took an unsteady step towards her then dropped to his knees, holding out his hands.
She crawled to him and tried not to cry as he pulled her close against his chest. One hand tightened around her back, clutching her desperately, and the other stroked her hair. “I am so sorry,” he whispered.
Clare held him in a fierce embrace. He was sweaty and shaky, but so was she.
“I am sorry for doubting you.” Desperate words tumbled out of him, and she thought he might have been practicing them on the walk through the forest. “I am sorry for yelling. And I am especially sorry for telling you to get out. I did not mean to make you leave the house. I did not want you to leave. I was not thinking rationally.”
She shook her head, trying to tell him it was all right. Words had become choked in her throat. The argument in the garden felt like it had happened half a lifetime ago. She didn’t care about it anymore. She was just grateful Dorran had come after her.
He pulled back. Dark eyes searched her face. One hand brushed over her cheek then ran over her neck, which was scratched. Then he looked down and saw the blood dripping off her wrist, and his eyes tightened. “You’re hurt.”
“Not bad.” She tried to hide it under her jacket sleeve. “I can’t really feel it anymore.”
He picked up her hand, gently peeled back the jacket, and examined it. Then he looked around them, first at the impaled woman then at the man he’d killed. His composure wavered, then he blinked rapidly, and it was restored. “We need to get back to the house.”
“Yes.” The shock was starting to fade, and Clare was beginning to feel the implications of what had happened. “Yes—quickly. These two aren’t the only ones.”
He tightened his arms around her and lifted her as he stood. “Can you walk?”
She thought so. “Yes.”
“Stay close to me.” Dorran scooped the bloodied shovel off the ground. Clare’s radio had fallen out of her jacket during the scuffle. She picked it up and prayed it hadn’t been damaged as she tucked it back into place.
Dorran then put his spare arm around Clare’s back. He paused for a moment, his eyebrows pulled low as he listened to the forest. Then he nodded to her and began leading them between the trees.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The air felt unnaturally still. All Clare could hear were the crunching footsteps and their gasping breaths. She tried to move quickly to keep up with Dorran, but her legs weren’t obeying her commands properly. Dorran matched her pace, though. When she started to struggle, he looped his arm under hers so that she could lean on him. His eyes never stopped scanning for movement among the patchy white-and-black landscape.
Clare’s mind began to make connections. Shortly before driving into Banksy Forest, she’d passed the two cars pulled over onto the side of the road. The doors had been left open, and the rear seat of the larger car had held an assortment of toys. One had been a distinctive caterpillar-like creature suspended from a hook above the window. She was sure the same design had been emblazoned onto the monstrous child’s shirt. It had been discoloured and torn in the weeks spent in the forest, but it was unmistakable.
Nausea surprised Clare, and she stumbled to a halt as she tried not to be sick. Dorran supported her, one arm around her and the other rubbing her shoulder as she regained her composure.
“All right?” he asked.
She nodded and fixed her eyes on the path ahead.
The creatures were like something out of a fever dream. But it was a hundred times worse to know that they had once been real people not much different than her. They had been in their car, trying to travel to safety, to seek shelter from the events sweeping the world.
Clare didn’t know why they had been caught and she had been spared. She had the awful idea that it came down to dumb luck. They had just been on that stretch of road at the wrong time.