Coldbrook (Hammer)(99)

Holly shoved the door closed behind her, and realised that it was night outside. The moon was almost full, a silvery smear against the dusty sky. And, for the life of her, she had no idea which direction to take from here.

The breeze whispered through stiff bushes and it was as if the laws of acoustics were different here. Holly’s footfalls kicked up that scent of almost-heather and the darkness hid the differences between here and her own world from sight. Made them even more threatening.

She ran along the shallow valley floor, trying to keep to shadows where she could, even though the moon’s illumination was weak. They’re not clouds, she thought, glancing up every few seconds at the smear of moonlight. It looked as if the moon had been crushed and smeared across the heavens, and she wondered how heavy the dust layers high in the atmosphere must be to give that effect. Plants still grew and people still lived, and she’d seen that the sun still found its way through. It was just another disturbing difference that made this place somewhere she should not be.

After a few minutes Holly paused and listened for any sounds of pursuit. Surely they’d know by now that she had escaped? When she thought she’d gone far enough she turned up the hillside, heading through sparse tree cover for the ridge. She’d always had a good sense of direction, and she had a positive feeling about where she was heading. She could not remember in detail every part of her journey on the stretcher, but this somehow felt right. She paused and turned every couple of minutes, trying to locate a view she might have seen before.

On the ridge she tried to find her bearings. Another ridge across the valley cut a recognisable line against the faint moonlight, spiked here and there with more trees than she was used to, yet it was a place that she knew from her own world. And closer, the slope she was about to take down from this hilltop swept towards the valley floor in a familiar bowl shape, home to a narrow creek and a chattering stream, slopes clothed with trees. She had come climbing here once with Melinda, searching for old birds’ nests, and both of them had been in awe of the wilderness around them.

The wilderness closed in on her now, though, and awe was tainted with fear.

She moved down from the hilltop into another dip in the landscape and crossed a stream, lifting the hem of her shapeless dress and gasping at the water’s coldness. On the opposite bank she paused, and thought she heard footsteps.

Holly inhaled sharply and held her breath. She looked around, but could see no one, nothing. Animal, she thought, but that brought no comfort at all. It could be anything.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, Holly?’ she whispered, but nothing replied, nothing ran at her.

She continued across an open area of hillside, noticing a dense woodland that began thirty metres down the slope from her. She was certain she remembered this from her journey here, but back then it had not felt so threatening. Now she sensed things among the trees, things that smelled like old stale clothes thrown out.

Just spooked, she thought. And as she tried convincing herself of that, she saw them.

Several figures came out of the shadows, little more than shadows themselves. It took only moments to see what they were, and Holly cried out in fear, firing the bolt already loaded into the crossbow. It whispered uselessly away into the darkness. They shuffled uphill towards her, and she was glad that the poor light hid their features.

She sprinted to put distance between herself and the stumbling furies. She didn’t know whether they could run, had no idea if they could track her by her scent. She knew nothing about them and her fear was like a cold rock in her stomach. She had a growing certainty that she was going to die in this older, deader world.

Seeing the furies made her more aware of shadows across the hillside where there should be none, movement that might or might not be plants shifting in the breeze. She paused for a moment and tried to reload the crossbow – there was a rack of six bolts on its underside – but dropped the bolt and cried out as her finger caught in the mechanism. She picked up the bolt and ran on.

It was difficult for Holly to admit that she was lost. Everywhere she saw views that she might have seen when they’d brought her here. But when she followed a gurgling stream in the hope that it might be the one running past the breach, and found herself among ruins, she could no longer deny the truth.

At first she was not quite sure what she was seeing. The mounds were uneven, the plant growth thick. But then she saw an obvious wall on her left, its upper few feet camouflaged with a few lone ivy tendrils, its blocks square and even.