Coldbrook (Hammer)(98)

The thought of striking anyone with it was horrible. But Holly took a few deep breaths and hefted the impromptu club in one hand. I need Vic, she thought. I need Jonah. I need home.

And, for the first time, the importance of Mannan’s immunity to her own world struck her like a bullet.

Someone was approaching.

Holly propped the damaged chair against the wall, fell onto the cot, and curled around the leg with her back to the door. She consciously regulated her breathing, all too aware of the thudding of her heart but unable to slow it. The footsteps paused and she heard the creak of unoiled hinges. She feigned a comfortable sigh. The person passed by and continued along the corridor . . .

And the smell of food reached her.

They were taking more food down to Mannan.

She stood and moved to the door, and as soon as she heard the first footfall from the stairwell she dashed up the corridor. Fear drove her on and made silence impossible; her breathing was ragged, her footsteps clumsy and panicked.

She reached a place she recognised and saw the strange light emanating from the casting room’s side corridor. It hazed the air, flowing and ebbing as the images within played across those bizarre screens. She marched past the wide doorway, not slowing down, not risking a glance inside, trying to exude confidence and a sense that she belonged here. Once past the room she listened for raised voices but heard none. The casters were viewing her world’s apocalypse in stoic silence.

When voices mumbled from rooms, she passed them by. Reasoning that stealth and caution would make her more noticeable than brashness, she strode along corridors past other open doorways and found herself eventually in the upper caves where she had first woken in this Coldbrook.

She paused at the entrance to a wide communal space. Across this roughly circular area was a curtained opening, behind which she suspected the door to the outside might lie. Either side of the opening were heavy shutters, planks of wood secured together with metal bands and suspended from thick metal hinges fixed into the stonework. And beyond these shutters, on either side, were racks of crossbows and bows, but no guns.

A man was sitting in the middle of the room, leaning back in a chair and reading a yellowed book. There was a low table beside him, on which lay a crossbow, a crumb-strewn plate, an oil lamp, and a horn-shaped object with a bulb at its narrow end.

Did they really still guard against the furies, after so long? Or was he there to keep on eye on her? Holly didn’t know, and she did not give herself time to dwell on it. The longer she waited to think things through, the closer she came to being caught. There was really only one way out, and she had to take it.

Stay, they’re safe, Drake is a good man, they’re the descendants of survivors, and in this world this place is Coldbrook! The words were those of her own timidity, trying to make her stay. But while she listened to them all she could see was Mannan stroking himself as he came for her, and those bite-scars that made him, ironically, less than human.

As she strode across the cave’s rough wooden floor, the man lowered his book and started to turn around.

Holly swung her club hard, wincing, closing her eyes at the last instant and aiming for a point behind his ear. The impact jarred through her hands and up her arms, and her own cry was almost as loud as the man’s. He shouted again, with pain and shock combined. Holly stepped back.

The man was still standing, one hand grasping his ear. Blood seeped between his fingers, and he worked his jaw as if he was trying to say something. But no words emerged. His eyes became unfocused, and as Holly raised the chair leg again he sank slowly back against the table, his free hand reaching around to slow his fall.

‘Sorry,’ Holly said. ‘I’m sorry.’ She shoved him away from the table and he sprawled across the floor, groaning softly and with his right hand still pressed to his head. She snatched up his crossbow and ran for the heavy curtain.

Beyond it was a short, narrow corridor, with several heavy wooden doors set in its wall. It was lit with a string of electric lights – the first she had seen other than those in the casting room – and at its end was a heavy metal door.

Oh f*ck oh shit it’s locked and I’m trapped and he’ll get to me before the others and beat me and—

But when she grabbed the handle and turned it she heard tumblers roll inside the lock mechanism. It was only bolted. Pulling back three bolts, she tugged the door open and smelled a rush of fresh air, only noticing at the last moment that there was a periscope viewing device set in an alcove beside the door.

Should have checked, Holly thought. But she was rushing headlong now, and to pause would be to lose momentum. If there were furies out here, she would have to fight her way past them, outrun them, or shoot them in the head with the crossbow. She glanced at the weapon and realised that she had little idea how to work it. But she could not leave it behind.