Above, the sky was dull, but not quite as smoggy as it had been around Evandale. A hazy dark line ran across the horizon. Clare slowed the bus, squinting through the windshield. Dorran stirred beside her, blinking first at her expression, then at the sky. “What’s that?”
“Smoke.” She flexed her hands around the wheel. It wasn’t dense enough to be from a forest fire. It has to come from a campfire or a chimney. And that means humans.
They hadn’t spoken to anyone since leaving Evandale, and Clare had been prepared to continue in solitude until they reached Winterbourne. The possibility of a chat with other humans, even for just five or ten minutes, was tempting.
Dorran was looking to her. He’d only had a few hours of sleep and seemed to be struggling to rouse himself. “Should we stop?”
Beth wouldn’t have. She believed other humans were dangerous. And she had good cause to think that way. But they aren’t all bad. And we might regret it if we don’t at least try to make contact.
She chewed on her thumbnail as she weighed the risks. “Do we need any supplies?”
“We are low on fuel,” Dorran said. “We should have enough to get us to Winterbourne, but not much extra. And it seems prudent to gather more while it is still possible.”
“Mm. If fuel is growing as scarce as Beth said it would be, they might be reluctant to trade. We don’t have much of value except for food, and we can’t really spare that.”
“True. But maybe they could give us advice on the best places to search. And we can share what we know, too.”
“Good call.” Clare saw motion out of the corner of her eye and pushed their bus back up to speed. “No one except us and the Evandale team knows about the thanites yet. They might have information to help us, too. It could even be a safe haven.”
“Will we take a chance, then?” Dorran asked.
“I’m game if you are.”
“All right. Let’s see if we can find our way there.”
The road curved gently, weaving between shallow hills. There were no crossroads, but every few kilometres they passed a gate edging a dirt road or a fenced-in patch of cleared land. There were no houses in sight. Clare guessed the area had to be remote enough that anyone living there would have escaped the thanites’ mutations.
Will it be a house? A campsite? They must know that anyone travelling through would see the smoke, so hopefully, they won’t mind visitors.
The smoke came from the road’s right and didn’t seem too far away. She slowed their pace as she hunted for a way to reach it. As it turned out, the side path advertised itself.
An old metal gate had been left open, tied to a tree by lashes of rope so that the wind couldn’t blow it shut. A wooden sign had been attached, with a pond-blue title hand-painted on it: Mother Gum’s Nest. And then, in smaller text that seemed to have been added hastily: Weary travellers welcome.
“Mother Gum?” Clare smiled despite herself. “Odd name.”
“At least she’s not hostile to guests.” Dorran tucked the blanket underneath his seat then ran his fingers through his hair in an effort to make it more presentable. He ended up looking even more dishevelled. Clare loved it.
The road became narrow and bumpy, and Clare gripped the wheel more tightly to brace against being shaken. Trees and shrubs grew on either side of the road, so close that their branches scraped across the bus’s sides. The sun felt muted. It was only allowed through the canopy in scraps and flecks, like confetti caught in the mist. Clare tried to see where they were headed, but the road kept moving in erratic curves, hiding the trail ahead. The path seemed well-used if a little neglected, but she managed to avoid the worst of the potholes.
All of a sudden, the road straightened, and Clare found herself facing a wall made of wood.
Mother Gum’s Nest had been such a charming name that the blockade gave Clare a sense of cognitive dissonance. Built at least twelve feet high, it was more than a simple fence. Its surface was covered with poles pointing outwards and angled downwards. Their ends had been sharpened into spikes. They glistened, almost as though they were wet.
They’ve been waxed, Clare realised. If a hollow tries to climb them, they’ll slide back down.
Constructing it must have been a herculean effort. The wall wound away to either side, curving gradually before the ends disappeared from sight, sheltering the unseen home. Clare saw no way to get inside.
Dorran made a faint noise of unease. He leaned forward in the seat, his expression dark as he surveyed the structure. Clare took his hand, a silent confirmation that she was feeling the same misgivings as he was.
“Perhaps we should keep driving,” Dorran said.
Clare was about to agree when motion ahead silenced her. A section of the wall slid aside, creating a gap in the structure. Through it, Clare caught a glimpse of a clearing.
She rested her hand over the gearstick, ready to shift into reverse at the first sign of danger. The gate shuddered away from them until the opening was wide enough for their bus to fit through. Then a figure stepped into the opening.
Tall and thin, he brought up instant memories of the stretched hollows Clare had seen. But the man was very much human. His face was pink from the effort of opening the gate, and he stood with human uneasiness. He looked young. Early twenties at most, Clare thought. Baggy, dirty clothes hung loose on him. Sweat stains marked the singlet’s sides, and the grease on his jeans was noticeable. His limp hair needed both a cut and a wash.
It was not the sort of welcome Clare had expected from Mother Gum’s Nest. She looked at Dorran again, waiting for his reaction. He worked his jaw, his eyes narrowed, but didn’t make a noise.
The gormless man lifted an arm, the hand flapping as he beckoned them forward. Then he stepped aside, granting them passage inside.
Dorran’s inhale sounded uncomfortably tight. “Should we?”
Clare hated the idea of the gate shutting behind them, blocking a possible escape. But they were being welcomed into what she assumed had to be a safe haven. And isn’t it worth the risk if these strangers can help us?
The man stepped back into view, eyebrows squeezing together to crease his forehead. He waved again, more urgently this time. He didn’t like leaving the gate open. Clare couldn’t blame him. Dorran made a soft noise in the back of his throat then gave her a stiff nod.
They coasted through the opening. Almost as soon as they were inside, the man was back at the gate, pushing furiously to roll it across mud-clotted tracks and close it.
The space inside the fence was big enough to hold a small village. Three buildings stood about, all made of wood and seemingly constructed by hand. One looked as though it might have been a small meeting hall. Plain fabric curtains had been pulled over the windows. Another of the buildings looked a lot like a worn-down, broken version of the sheds behind Winterbourne. The third building was unmistakably a house; a column of thick smoke rose from its over-sized chimney. The house looked like a jigsaw puzzle put together incorrectly. Three and a half stories, it had rooms and verandas jutting out at odd angles, and in some places, age-bowed support beams held up expansions that looked as though they shouldn’t have been possible.
More than a dozen cars and vans in various states of road-worthiness were scattered about the field. Some looked like they might have been there for a decade and were little more than rusted shells. Others were more recent, and some even had modifications for the stillness, like Dorran and Clare’s minibus.