Текст книги "Bird box"

Автор книги: Josh Malerman

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

“Malorie, I’ll check in on you. I’ll call again. Or do you think you’ll be coming right away?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know when I’ll be able to come.”

“Okay.”

“But thank you.”

It feels like the most sincere thank-you Malorie has ever spoken in her life.

“I’ll call you in a week, Malorie.”

“Okay.”

“Malorie?”

“Yes?”

“If I don’t call, it could mean the lines have finally died on our end. Or it could mean the lines at your place are out, too. Just trust me when I tell you we will be here. You come anytime. We will be here.”

“Okay,” Malorie says.

Rick gives her his phone number. Malorie, using the pen, blindly scribbles the numbers on a page in the open phone book.

“Good-bye, Malorie.”

“Good-bye.”

Just a simple, everyday talk on the phone.

Malorie hangs up. Then she hangs her head and cries. The babies shift in her lap. She cries for another twenty minutes, unbroken, until she screams when she hears something scratching at the cellar door. It is Victor. He is barking to be let out. Somehow, he was blessedly locked in the cellar. Maybe Jules, knowing what was coming, did it.

After rehanging the blankets and closing the doors, she will use a broomstick to search every inch of the home for creatures. It will be six hours before she feels safe enough to open her eyes, at which point she will see what went on in the house while she was delivering her baby.

But before then, with her eyes closed tightly, Malorie will stand up and step back through the living room until she reaches the top of the cellar stairs.

And there she will step by Tom’s body.

She will not know it is him, believing it to be a bag of sugar that her foot nudges, as she kneels before the bucket of well water and begins the laborious job of cleaning the children and herself.

She will speak with Rick a number of times in the coming months. But soon the lines reaching the house will die.

It will take her six months to wash the house of the bodies and blood. She will find Don on the kitchen floor, reaching for the cellar. As if he raced there, mad, to ask Gary for his mind back. She will check for Gary. Everywhere. But she will never find a sign of him. She will always be aware of him. The possibility of him. Out there. In the world.

Most of the housemates will be buried in a semicircle around the well out back. She will forever feel the uneven lumps, the graves she dug and filled while blindfolded, whenever she gets water for herself or the children.

Tom will be buried closest to the house. The patch of grass to which she takes the children, blindfolded, as a means of getting them fresh air. A place where, she hopes, their spirits run freest.

It will be four years before she answers yes to whether or not she is coming soon to the place Rick described on the phone.

But now she just washes. Now she just cleans the babies. And the babies cry.

forty-three

Tom’s recorded voice plays over again.

He is leaving a message.

“. . . Two seventy-three Shillingham . . . my name is Tom . . . I’m sure you understand the relief I feel at getting your answering machine . . .”

The blindfold is still held an inch from her closed eyes.

She raises a hand and brings her fingers to the black cloth. For a moment, both she and the creature hold the same blindfold. This creature, or ones like it, stole Shannon, her mother, her father, and Tom. This thing, and the things like it, have stolen childhood from the children.

In a way, Malorie is not afraid. They have done everything to her already.

“No,” she says, tugging on the cloth. “This is mine.”

For a moment, nothing happens. Then something touches her face. Malorie grimaces. But it is only the fold, returning to its place on her nose and temples.

You’re going to have to open your eyes.

It’s true. Tom’s recorded voice means she has arrived where Rick said the channels split. He speaks as he once did, in the living room of the house, when he used to say, Maybe they mean us no harm. Maybe they are surprised by what they do to us. It’s an overlap, Malorie. Their world and ours. Just an accident. Maybe they don’t like hurting us at all.

But whatever their intentions are, Malorie has to open her eyes, and at least one is near.

She has seen the children do incredible things. Once, after flipping through the phone book, the Boy called out that she was on page one hundred and six. He was close. And Malorie knows she’s going to need a feat like that, from them, right now.

There is movement in the water to her left. The creature is either no longer curious about the blindfold and is leaving, or it is waiting to see what Malorie does next.

“Boy?” she says, and she needs to say no more. He understands the question.

He is quiet at first. Listening. Then he answers.

“It’s leaving us, Mommy.”

Despite the distant, warring birds and Tom’s beautiful, calming voice coming from the speaker, it feels like a moment of silence is occurring. Silence emanating from this thing.

Where is it now?

The rowboat, released, is being pulled along with the current. Malorie knows that the sound of the water ahead is the sound of the split. She doesn’t have much time.

“Boy,” she says, her throat dry. “Do you hear anything else?”

The Boy is quiet.

“Boy?”

“No, Mommy. I don’t.”

“Are you certain? Are you absolutely sure?”

She sounds hysterical. Whether or not she is ready, the moment has come.

“Yes, Mommy. We’re alone again.”

“Where did it go?”

“It went away.”

“Which way?”

Silence. Then, “It’s behind us, Mommy.”

“Girl?”

“Yes. It’s behind us, Mommy.”

Malorie is quiet.

The children said the thing is behind them.

If there’s one thing she can lean on in the new world, it’s that she has trained them well.

She trusts them.

She has to.

Now they are level with Tom’s voice. It sounds like he is in the boat with them.

She swallows hard.

She wipes tears from her lips.

She breathes deep.

Then she feels it. Just like when they let Tom and Jules back into the house. Just like when they thought they were letting Gary out.

The Moment Between.

Between deciding to open her eyes and doing it.

Malorie turns to face the channels and opens her eyes.

At first, she has to squint. Not from the sunlight, but from the colors.

She gasps, bringing a hand to her mouth.

Her mind is emptied of thoughts, worries, anxieties, and hopes. She knows no words to explain what she sees.

It’s kaleidoscopic. Endless. Magnificent.

Look, Shannon! That cloud looks like Angela Markle from class!

In the old world, she could have looked at a world twice as bright and not had to squint. But now, the beauty hurts her.

She could look forever. Surely another few seconds. But Tom’s voice urges her on.

As if in slow motion, she leans toward where his voice comes from, savoring his every word. It’s like he’s standing there. Telling her she’s so close. Malorie understands that she cannot keep the colors she sees. She must close her eyes again. She must cut herself off from all this wonder, this world.

She closes her eyes.

She returns to the darkness she knows so well now.

She begins rowing.

As she approaches the second channel from the right, it feels like she is rowing with the years. The memories. She rows with the self she was when she found out she was pregnant, when she found Shannon dead, when she answered the ad in the newspaper. She rows with the self she was when she arrived at the house, met the housemates for the first time, and agreed to let Olympia in. She rows with the person she was when Gary arrived. She rows with herself, on a towel in the attic, as Don pulled the blankets from the windows downstairs.

She is stronger now. She is braver. By herself, she has raised two children in this world.

Malorie has changed.

The boat rocks suddenly as it touches one of the banks of the channel. Malorie understands they have entered it.

From here, she rows as the person she was when she had the children alone. Four years. Training them. Raising them. Keeping them safe from an outside world that must have grown more dangerous each day. She rows with Tom, too, and the dozens of things he said, the countless things he did and the hope that inspired her, encouraged her, and made her believe that it’s better to face madness with a plan than to sit still and let it take you in pieces.

The boat is moving fast now. Rick said it was only a hundred yards to the trigger.

She rows with the person she was when she awoke today. The person who thought a fog might hide her and the children from someone like Gary, who could still be out there, still watching them move down the river. She rows with the self she was when the wolf struck. When the man in the boat went mad. When the birds went mad. And when the creature, the thing she fears above all things, toyed with her only form of protection.

The blindfold.

With the thought of the cloth, and all it’s meant to her, Malorie hears what sounds like a loud metallic explosion.

The rowboat crashes into something. Malorie quickly checks the children.

It’s the fence, she knows. They have triggered Rick’s alarm.

Malorie, her heart pounding, no longer needing to row, turns her head toward the sky and yells. It is relief. It is anger. It is everything.

“We’re here,” she calls loudly. “We’re here!”

From the banks, they hear movement. Something is coming fast toward them.

Malorie is gripping the paddles. It feels like her hands will always be in this position.

As she coils something touches her arm.

“It’s all right!” a voice says. “My name is Constance. It’s okay. I’m with Rick.”

“Are your eyes open?!”

“No. I’m wearing a blindfold.”

Malorie’s mind is flooded with distantly familiar sounds.

This is what a woman sounds like. She hasn’t heard another female voice since Olympia went mad.

“I have two children with me. It’s just the three of us.”

“Children?” Constance says, suddenly excited. “Grab my hand, let’s get you out of the boat. I’ll take you to Tucker.”

“Tucker?” Malorie pauses.

“Yes, I’ll show you—it’s where we live. Our facility.”

Constance helps Malorie grab the children first. Their hands are clasped together as Malorie is pulled out of the boat.

“You’ll have to excuse me for carrying a gun,” Constance says timidly.

“A gun?”

“You can only imagine the sorts of animals that have triggered our fence. Are you hurt?” Constance asks.

“I am. Yes.”

“We have medicine. We have doctors.”

Malorie’s lips crack painfully as she smiles bigger than she has in more than four years.

“Medicine?”

“Yes. Medicine, tools, paper. So much.”

They begin walking, slowly. Malorie’s arm clutches Constance’s shoulders. She cannot walk by herself. The children grip Malorie’s pants, following blindfolded.

“Two kids,” Constance says, her voice soothing. “I can only imagine what you’ve been through today.”

She says today but both know she means for years.

They are walking uphill and Malorie’s body throbs with pain. Then the ground beneath them changes, suddenly. Concrete. A sidewalk. Malorie hears a light clicking sound.

“What is that?”

“That noise?” Constance asks. “It’s a walking stick. But we don’t need it anymore. We’re here.”

Malorie hears her knock quickly on a door.

What sounds like heavy metal creaks open and Constance guides them inside.

The door slams shut behind them.

Malorie smells things she hasn’t smelled in years. Food. Cooked food. Sawdust, as though someone is building something. She can hear it, too. The low hum of a machine. Several machines whirring at once. The air feels clean and fresh, and the sound of conversations echoes far away.

“It’s okay to open your eyes now,” Constance says kindly.

“No!” Malorie shouts, gripping the Boy and Girl. “Not the children! I’ll do it first.”

Someone else approaches. A man.

“My God,” he says. “Is it really you? Malorie?”

She recognizes a man’s dull, husky voice. Years ago, she heard this voice on the other end of a phone. She has debated, with herself, for four long years, whether or not she’d hear his voice once more.

It is Rick.

Malorie tugs at her blindfold and slowly opens her eyes, squinting against the harsh white light of the facility.

They are in a large hallway flooded with light. It is so bright that Malorie can barely keep her eyes open. It’s an enormous school. The ceilings are high, with domed light panels that make Malorie feel as though she’s outside. Tall walls reach to the ceiling and are crowded with bulletin boards. Desks. Glass cases. There are no windows, but the air feels fresh and crisp, like the outdoors. The floor is clean and cool, the hallway is brick, and very long. Turning back to Rick, she stares at his withered face and understands.

His eyes are open but they do not focus on any one thing. They loll in his head, glassy and gray, and lost their glimmer years ago. His full head of brown hair hangs long and shaggy over his ears but does not hide a deep and faded scar near his left eye. He touches it apprehensively, as if feeling Malorie’s gaze. She notices his wooden walking stick, worn and awkward, bent from some broken tree limb.

“Rick,” she says, pulling the children close behind her, “you’re blind.”

Rick nods.

“Yes, Malorie. Many of us here are. But Constance can see as clearly as you can. We’ve come a long way.”

Malorie slowly looks around at the walls, taking it all in. Handwritten banners mark the progress of their recovery, and flyers declare daily assignments for farming, water purification, and a medical evaluation timesheet, filled with appointments.

Her eyes stop above her, and in brass letters embedded in a brick arch, she reads:

JANE TUCKER SCHOOL FOR THE BLIND

“The man—” Rick pauses. “The one on the recording—he isn’t with you, is he?” Rick says.

Malorie feels her heartbeat quicken and swallows with difficulty.

“Malorie?” he says, concerned.

Constance touches Rick’s shoulder and softly whispers, “No, Rick. He isn’t with them.”

Malorie steps back, still gripping the children, moving toward the door.

“He’s dead,” she answers rigidly, scanning the hall for others. Not trusting. Not yet.

Rick begins to tap his walking stick, moving closer to Malorie, reaching out to touch her.

“Malorie—we’ve contacted many people over the years, but fewer than you might think. Who knows how many of us are alive out there? And who knows how many are sane? You’re the only person we expected to be coming down the river. That doesn’t mean nobody else could, of course, but after careful thought, we decided Tom’s voice would not only alert you to the fact that you’d arrived, but it would also let strangers know a civilization of some kind was near, if they were to get stopped by the fence first. Had I known he was no longer with you, I’d have insisted we use something else. Please, accept my apology.”

She watches him closely. His voice sounds hopeful, optimistic even. She hasn’t heard a tone of voice like his in a long time. Still, his face wears the stress and age of living in this new world just like hers does. Like the housemates once looked, years ago.

As he and Constance begin to explain how the facility operates, the fields of potatoes and squash, their harvest of berries in the summer, a means of purifying rainwater, Malorie sees a shadowy figure move behind Rick’s head.

A small group of young women emerge from a room wearing plain, light blue clothing. They tap walking sticks, their hands waving in front of them. The women move quietly, ghostly, past Malorie, and she can feel her stomach sink as she sees their cavernous, hollow eyes. She feels light-headed, sick, like she might throw up.

Where the women’s eyes should be are two enormous, dark scars.

Malorie clutches the children tighter. They bury their heads against her legs.

Constance reaches toward her, but Malorie pulls away, frantically searching for her blindfold on the ground, dragging the children with her.

“She’s seen them,” Constance says to Rick.

He nods.

“Stay away from us!” Malorie pleads. “Don’t touch us. Don’t come near us! What is going on here?!”

Constance looks over her shoulder and sees the women exiting the hall. The room is quiet except for Malorie’s panting breaths and quiet sobs.

“Malorie,” Rick begins, “it’s how we used to do things. We had to. There was no other choice. When we arrived here, we were starving. Like forgotten settlers in a foreign, hostile land. We didn’t have the amenities we have now. We needed food. So we hunted. Unfortunately, we didn’t have the security we have now, either. One night, while a handful were out, searching for food, a creature got in. We lost many people that night. A mother, who one moment was completely rational, snapped and killed four children in a fit of rage. It took us months to recover, to rebuild. We vowed to never take that risk again. For the good of the whole community.”

Malorie looks to Constance, who has no scars.

“It wasn’t a matter of choice,” Rick continues. “We blinded ourselves with whatever we had—forks, kitchen knives, our fingers. Blindness, Malorie, was the absolute protection. But that was the old way. We don’t do that anymore. After a year, we realized we’d fortified this place enough to lighten this awful burden on our shoulders. So far, we’ve had no security lapses.”

Malorie thinks of George and his video, the failed experiments. She remembers how she almost blinded her children in an act of sacrificial desperation.

Constance can see. She isn’t blind. Had you found the courage four years ago, Malorie thinks, who knows what would have happened to you. To the children.

Rick leans on Constance for support.

“If you had been here, you would understand.”

Malorie is frightened. But she does understand. And in her desperation, she wants to trust these people. She wants to believe she has led the children somewhere better.

Turning, she catches a reflection of herself in an office window. She hardly resembles the woman she once was, when she checked the flatness of her belly in the bathroom, as Shannon shouted about the news on the television in the other room. Her hair is thin, matted, and caked with dirt and the blood of so many birds. Her scalp, raw and red, is visible in patches. Her body is gaunt. The bones in her face have shifted—her delicate features have been replaced with sharp and angular ones—her skin tight and sallow. She opens her mouth slightly to reveal a chipped tooth. Her skin is bloodied, bruised, and pale. The deep gash from the wolf mars her swollen arm. Still, she can see that something powerful burns within the woman in the glass. A fire that has propelled her for four and a half years, that demanded she survive, that commanded her to make a better life for her children.

Exhausted, free from the house, free from the river, Malorie falls to her knees. She pulls away the blindfolds from the children’s faces. Their eyes are open, blinking and straining against the bright lights. The Boy and Girl stare in awe, quiet and unsure. They do not understand where they are and look to Malorie for guidance. This is the first place they have seen outside the house in their entire lives.

Neither cries. Neither complains. They stare up at Rick, listening.

“Like I said,” Rick says cautiously, “we’re able to do a lot of things here. The facility is much bigger than this hall implies. We grow all of our own food and have managed to capture a few animals. There’s chickens for fresh eggs, a cow for milk, and two goats we’ll be able to breed. One day soon we hope to go in search of more animals, to build a little farm.”

She breathes deep and looks at Rick for the first time with hope.

Goats, she thinks. Other than fish, the children have never seen a living animal.

“At Tucker, we’re completely self-sufficient—we’ve got a whole medical team dedicated to rehabilitating those who are blind. This place should bring you some peace, Malorie. It does for me every day.”

“And you two,” Constance says, kneeling by the children. “What are your names?”

It’s as if this is the first time the question has ever mattered to Malorie. Suddenly there is room in her life for such luxuries as names.

“This,” Malorie says, placing a bloodied hand on the Girl’s head, “this is Olympia.”

The Girl looks at Malorie quickly. She blushes. She smiles. She likes it.

“And this,” Malorie says, pressing the Boy to her body, “is Tom.”

He grins, shy and happy.

On her knees, Malorie hugs her children and cries hot tears that are better than any laughter she’s ever felt.

Relief.

Her tears flow freely, softly, as she thinks of her housemates working together to bring water from the well, sleeping on the living room floor, discussing the new world. She sees Shannon, laughing, finding shapes and figures in the clouds, curious with warmth and kindness, doting on Malorie.

She thinks of Tom. His mind always working, solving a problem. Always trying.

She thinks of his love for living.

In the distance, farther down the long school hall, others emerge from different rooms. Rick places a hand on Constance’s shoulder as they begin to walk farther into the facility. It’s as if this whole place knows to give Malorie and her children a moment to themselves. As if everyone and everything understands that, at last, they are safe.

Safer.

Now, here, hugging the children, it feels to Malorie like the house and the river are just two mythical locations, lost somewhere in all that infinity.

But here, she knows, they are not quite as lost.

Or alone.