The pain was almost unbearable. Clare choked on it.
A second later, Dorran’s arms were around her, and he pulled her against his chest. “Here,” he murmured as he stroked her hair. “I have you. Let it out.”
Burning-hot tears came like a wave. Dorran held her and brushed his fingers over her hair as she gasped and shook.
Marnie had deserved better. Beth deserved better as well. She, at least, had a better chance of survival. Her bunker was reinforced and stocked with food. As long as she’d made it there on time, as long as she’d locked the door as soon as she saw the storm clouds building on the horizon, she might be safe. But her existence couldn’t be a happy one. She would think Clare was dead. The last time they’d spoken, right before the call dropped, she’d been yelling at Clare to turn back. She must have been watching the news reports and seen a quiet zone appear over the road between them. She’d tried to save Clare.
If Beth was still out there, she would have spent the past two weeks alone in her bunker, grieving and terrified. Clare couldn’t stand to think of her like that or of how much longer the state might continue. She pulled out of Dorran’s arms and stumbled across the room to find the radio amongst the bedding. Dorran let her go, but he watched her closely. She brought the radio back to the fire and wiped tears off her cheeks as she turned it on. The crackling noise floated around them as she adjusted the signal to pick up Beth’s frequency. There was only white noise.
Dorran silently divided the soup into bowls while Clare fiddled with the radio’s settings. He placed a bowl at her side but didn’t try to interrupt her. She continued turning the dial, trying to find anything except incessant static.
There has to be someone else out there. We survived. We can’t be the only ones. Please, please, let us not be the only ones.
As she scrolled through the frequencies, something organic rose out of the static. Dorran took a sharp breath and moved closer as Clare rewound the dial. She held the radio between them and pushed the volume up as they tried to pick out the words. It was a man’s voice, deep and rough, buried inside the never-ending white noise. Clare had to strain to make out the words.
“… and now my gasket’s blown, so I’m scavenging through cars, trying to find one that will fit.”
Silence stretched for a moment. Clare tugged on Dorran’s sleeve. “He’s talking to someone else, but we can only hear his side.”
“Ah, yeah, I’ll give that a shot. Gotta wait ’til morning. Hollow ones are everywhere.” After another stretch of silence, he said, “Hell if I know. If I can get to Clydesdale, I might try to make a permanent refuge. Or I might keep moving. Depends on how occupied it is. They’re starting to rove, though, so even the middle-of-nowhere places aren’t so safe anymore.”
Clare and Dorran exchanged a look. The audio was nearly impossible to make out through the static, but Clare guessed hollow ones referred to the infected creatures.
The man exhaled a long, drawn-out swear word. “Ain’t seen a dead one yet that wasn’t deliberately killed. If they can die from sickness or hunger, they’re taking their sweet-ass time about it.” A short pause. “I don’t buy that. It’s a growth stimulant, one that affects the bones. A disease won’t do this.”
Clare pressed the volume a fraction higher. The man’s voice became less and less clear as he and his companion delved into an argument, both trying to talk over the other. “Nah… nah… it’s man—I said it’s man-made. Get your hippy-ass theories out of here. How’s a fungus doing this? Nah, listen. Something like this—it’s chemicals. Government bombing. Hell if I know. Population control gone wrong? But I’m telling you, this ain’t no virus.”
The silence lasted a very long time. Clare desperately wished she could hear the other side of the conversation, but she didn’t dare risk losing her current feed looking for it. Then the man exhaled a deep, weary sigh.
“Whatever. I’m heading in for the night. Got a lot of driving to do in the morning if I can get a new gasket. Talk tomorrow, same time, assuming we’re not dead?” His laughter was raucous. “All right. All right. Be safe, buddy.”
Clare lowered the volume as static replaced the voice. She sat back on her heels and bit her lip. “We’re not alone.”
“No,” Dorran said. “But it doesn’t sound good.”
Clare knew the location the man had talked about—Clydesdale. The tiny village was a six-hour drive from her home. He’d made it sound like the place would be unoccupied by humans. Like everywhere would be unoccupied. That didn’t bode well for the human population. She was suddenly very, very grateful for having found Winterbourne Hall. The building might not be the cosiest or the most inviting she’d ever visited. But it was safe… relatively speaking. It was safe enough that she and Dorran had survived before they even knew what kind of threat they were facing.
She wound the radio back to Bethany’s frequency and waited, holding her breath, for any noises coming through. If Beth was still alive and still had her radio, she wasn’t using it. Clare turned down the volume and placed the box on the ground beside the fireplace, where she could continue to listen for noises, then pulled her knees up under her chin.
“Eat,” Dorran murmured. “You’ll feel better with food.”
She knew she should be grateful for what she had. A home. Company. Food. Warmth. They were all luxuries she might otherwise have had to live without. But as she picked up the bowl and stirred the medley of vegetables inside, her stomach revolted against the idea of eating. She put it back down. “What are we going to do?”
“I have been considering the same question.” His expression was strained as he stared into the fire. “It would not be safe to leave Winterbourne.”
“No,” she agreed.
“And if we did, where would we go? Until the world is returned to some kind of order… until there is a safe haven that offers better chances of survival than Winterbourne…”
“We’re better off staying here.” Clare ran her hands through her hair. “Yeah. At least we have the garden and water.” She blinked as she watched the crackling fire. Her throat still ached from crying. She was exhausted, physically and emotionally, but her mind wouldn’t let her rest.
Dorran’s dark eyes lingered on her, then he turned to the crate of supplies and fished out the doctor’s medical equipment. Dorran sorted through the bottles, pulled out a roll of bandages, then held out his hand. “Let me see your wrist.”
“It’s not so bad.” She tugged the sleeve over it again. “You’re tired. You must be ready to drop.”
“Hah.” He shuffled closer, worked his fingers under her hand, then gently coaxed it out from where she cradled it against her body. “I won’t rest easily if you’re in pain. Let me fix it first.”
He eased the sleeve back and hissed as he saw the red skin. He tilted it, examining it, then placed it back into Clare’s lap as he went to fetch water from the bathroom. As he set it to boil over the fire, he laid out his supplies on a clean towel. “Does it hurt?”
“Not much.” That was true. The torn skin still burnt whenever Clare moved it or touched it, but otherwise, it had dulled to a steady ache.
Dorran still gave her two of the pain tablets then adjusted his position so that Clare could lean her head against his shoulder as he worked. He dipped a cloth into the boiled water and touched it, very gently, to the edge of the cuts.