Текст книги "Bird box"

Автор книги: Josh Malerman

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

eighteen

As the rowboat glides, taken by the water slowly on its own, Malorie cups a handful of river water and washes the wound on her shoulder.

It’s not an easy task and the pain is severe.

“Are you okay, Mommy?” the Boy asks.

“No questions,” she answers. “Listen.”

When the wolf struck her, Malorie saw red as the dark world behind her blindfold erupted into bright pain. Now, as she cleans, she sees purples, grays, and worries that this means she is close to passing out. Fainting. Leaving the children to fend for themselves.

Her jacket is off. Her tank top is bloodied and she shivers, wondering how much of that is the cold air and how much is the loss of blood. From the right pocket of the jacket, she removes a steak knife. Then she cuts a sleeve off the jacket and ties it tightly around her shoulder.

Wolves.

By the time the children turned three, Malorie had gotten complex with her lessons. The pair was instructed to remember ten, twenty sounds in a row before revealing what they thought they were. Malorie would walk through the house, then outside, then upstairs. Along the way she made noises. Upon returning, the children told her what she had done. Soon, the Girl got all twenty right. But the Boy was reciting forty, fifty sounds, adding the unintentional noises she made on her way to the ones she meant.

You started in our bedroom, Mommy. You sighed before leaving. Then you walked to the kitchen and on the way your ankle cracked. You sat in the middle chair at the kitchen table. You put your elbows on the table. You cleared your throat and then went into the cellar. You took the first four steps slower than the last six. You tapped your finger on your teeth.

But no matter how much she’s taught them, the children could not be prepared to name the beasts who roam the woods on the river. The wolves, Malorie knows, have every advantage. So will anything else they encounter.

She tightens the tourniquet even more. Her shoulder throbs. Her thighs ache. Her neck aches. This morning she felt strong enough to row the twenty-mile trip. Now, wounded, she needs rest. She debates this with herself. She knows that in the old world, a break would have been advised. But stopping out here could mean death.

A loud screech from above makes Malorie jump. It sounded like a bird of prey. Like it was a hundred feet long. Ahead, something splashes. It’s brief but the sound is unnerving. Something moves in the woods to the left. More birds call out. The river is coming to life and with each piece of evidence of this, Malorie grows more afraid.

As the life grows around her, it seems to diminish within.

“I’m okay,” she lies to the kids. “I want us to listen now. That’s all. Nothing more.”

Rowing again, Malorie tries not to think about the pain. She doesn’t have a clear idea of how much farther she has to go. But she knows it’s a lot. At least as far as she’s already gone.

Years ago, the housemates were unsure if animals went insane. They talked about it all the time. Tom and Jules took a walk, looking for dogs to guide them. As Malorie and the others waited for them to return, she was overwhelmed with terrible images of rabid animals gone mad. She experiences the same thoughts today. As the river comes alive with nature, she imagines the worst. Just like she did those years ago, before the children were born, when the inertia of the front door reminded you that things like insanity were lurking whether or not someone you cared about was out there with it.

nineteen

Five months along now, Malorie’s pregnancy is developing. It’s the end of the “nauseous months,” but some queasiness lingers. She experiences heartburn. Her legs ache. Her gums bleed. Her dark hair is fuller, as is all the other hair on her body. She feels monstrous, distorted, changed. But as she walks through the house, carrying a bucket of urine, none of these things occupy her thoughts like the whereabouts and safety of Tom and Jules.

It’s astonishing, she thinks, how much she already feels for each of her housemates. Prior to arriving, she heard so many stories of people hurting one another on the way to hurting themselves. Back then, the horrors worried Malorie because of what they meant for herself and her child. Now the safety of the entire house consumes her.

It has been five hours since the men left. And with each minute passing, the tension has grown, so that now Malorie can’t remember if the housemates are repeating their chores or carrying them out for the first time.

Malorie sets the bucket by the back door. In a few minutes, Felix will dump it outside. Right now, he’s at the dining room table, repairing a chair. Passing through the kitchen, Malorie enters the living room. Cheryl is cleaning the surfaces. The picture frames. The telephone. Malorie notes that Cheryl’s arms look pale and thin. In the two months she’s been living here, their bodies have gotten much worse. They do not eat well. They do not exercise enough. Nobody gets any sun. Tom is outside, chasing a better life for them all. But how much better can he make it?

And who would let the housemates know if they vanished out there, forever?

Anxious, Malorie asks Cheryl if she needs any help. Cheryl says no before leaving the room, but Malorie is not alone. Victor sits behind the easy chair, facing the blankets that cover the windows. His head is up. His tongue hangs and he pants heavily. Malorie thinks he’s waiting, like she is, for his master to return.

As if aware that he is being watched, Victor slowly turns toward Malorie. Then he looks back to the blankets.

Don enters the room. He sits in the easy chair, then gets up and leaves. Olympia comes downstairs. She looks for something under the sink in the kitchen. Malorie watches her as she realizes she’s already holding what she seeks. She heads back upstairs. Cheryl is back, checking the picture frames. She just did this. She’s doing it again. They’re all doing it again. Nervously passing through the house, trying to occupy their minds. They hardly speak to one another. They hardly look up. Getting water from the well is one thing, and the housemates worry about one another when they do. But what Tom and Jules are doing is almost impossible to suffer.

Malorie stands up and heads for the kitchen. But there is only one place in the house that feels less like the house. Malorie wants to go there. She needs to. To get away.

The cellar.

Felix is in the kitchen but he does not acknowledge her as she passes. He doesn’t say a word as she opens the cellar door and takes the stairs down to the dirt floor beneath.

She pulls the string and the light comes on, illuminating the space as it did when Tom showed it to her two months ago. But it looks different now. There are fewer cans. Fewer colors. And Tom is not here, making notes, counting in rations the amount of time the housemates have before starvation and desperation arrive.

Malorie steps to the shelves and distractedly reads the labels.

Corn. Beets. Tuna. Peas. Mushrooms. Mixed fruit. Green beans. Sour cherries. Lingonberries. Grapefruit. Pineapple. Refried beans. Vegetable blend. Chili peppers. Water chestnuts. Diced tomatoes. Plum tomatoes. Tomato sauce. Sauerkraut. Baked beans. Carrots. Spinach. Varieties of chicken broth.

She remembers it feeling crowded down here. The cans once looked like a wall of their own. Now there are holes. Big ones. As if a battle occurred, and their supply was targeted first. Is there enough food to last until the baby comes? If Tom and Jules do not return, will the remaining stock carry her to that dreaded day? What exactly will they do when they run out of canned goods? Hunt?

The baby can drink her mother’s milk. But only if her mother has eaten.

Caressing her belly, Malorie walks to the stool and sits.

Despite the cool air down here, she is sweating. The restless footsteps of the housemates are loud. The ceiling creaks.

Wiping her hair from her forehead, Malorie leans back against the shelves. She counts cans. Her eyelids feel heavy. It feels good to rest.

Then . . . she drifts.

When she comes to, Victor is barking upstairs.

She sits up quickly.

Victor is barking. What is he barking at?!

Crossing the cellar quickly, Malorie climbs the stairs and rushes into the living room. The others are already here.

“Cut it out!” Don yells.

Victor is facing the windows, barking.

“What’s happening?” Malorie demands, surprised at the panic in her own voice.

Don yells at Victor again.

“He’s just edgy without Jules,” Felix nervously says.

“No,” Cheryl says. “He heard something.”

“We don’t know that, Cheryl,” Don snaps.

Victor barks again. It’s loud. Sharp. Angry.

“Victor!” Don says. “Come on!”

The housemates are gathered close to one another in the center of the living room. They are unarmed. If Cheryl is right, if Victor thinks something is outside the house, what can they do?

“Victor!” Don yells again. “I’m gonna fucking kill you!”

But Victor won’t stop.

And Don, yell as he might, is as afraid as Malorie is.

“Felix,” Malorie says slowly, staring at the front window. “You told me there was a garden outside. Are there any tools?”

“Yes.” Felix is staring at the black blankets, too.

“Are they in the house?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you get them?”

Felix turns toward her and pauses. Then he leaves the room.

Malorie goes through the items of the house in her mind. Every furniture leg is a potential weapon. Every solid object ammunition.

Victor keeps barking and it’s getting worse. And in the brief spaces between his barks, Malorie hears Felix’s anxious footsteps, searching for the paltry garden tools that might protect them from whatever it is that’s out there.

twenty

It is noon the next day. Tom and Jules have not returned.

Tom’s twelve hours have been more than doubled. And with each one, the emotions within the house grow darker.

Victor still sits by the blanketed window.

The housemates were up late, gathered together, waiting for the dog to stop barking.

They’ll eventually get us, Don said. There’s no reason to think otherwise. It’s end times, people. And if it’s a matter of a creature our brains are incapable of comprehending, then we deserve it. I always assumed the end would come because of our own stupidity.

Eventually, Victor did stop barking.

Now, in the kitchen, Malorie dunks her hands in a bucket of water. Don and Cheryl went to the well this morning. Each time they knocked to present Felix with a new bucketful, Malorie’s heart leapt, hoping, believing it was Tom.

She brings the water to her face and runs her wet fingers through her matted, sweaty hair.

“Goddamn it,” she says.

She is alone in the kitchen. She is staring at the drapes that cover the room’s one window. She is thinking of all the infinite terrible things that could’ve happened.

Jules killed Tom. He saw a creature and dragged Tom to the river by his hair. He held him underwater till he drowned. Or they both saw something. In a house. They destroyed each other. Their ruined bodies lie on the floor in a stranger’s den. Or only Tom saw something. Jules tried to stop him, but Tom got away. He’s in the woods somewhere. Eating bugs. Eating bark. Eating his own tongue.

“Malorie?”

Malorie jumps as Olympia enters the kitchen.

“What?”

“I’m really worried, Malorie. He said twelve hours.”

“I know,” Malorie says. “We all are.”

Malorie reaches out to put her hand on Olympia’s shoulder and hears Don’s voice from the dining room.

“I’m not convinced we should let them back in.”

Malorie quickly goes to the dining room.

“Come on, Don,” Felix, already in there, says. “How can you mean that?”

“What do you think is going on out there, Felix? You think it’s a nice neighborhood we’re living in? If anybody’s alive out there, they’re not surviving on manners, man. Who’s to say Tom and Jules weren’t kidnapped? They could be hostages right now. And their fucking captors could be asking about our food. Our food.”

“Fuck you, Don,” Felix says. “If they come back, I’m letting them in.”

“If it’s them,” Don says. “And if we’re sure there’s not a gun to Tom’s head on the other side of the door.”

“Will you two shut up!” Cheryl says, passing Malorie and entering the dining room.

“You can’t be serious, Don,” Malorie says.

Don turns toward her.

“You’re damn right I’m serious.”

“You don’t want to let them back in?” Olympia asks, standing beside Malorie now.

“I didn’t say that,” Don snaps. “I’m saying there could be bad people out there. Do you understand that, Olympia? Or is that too complicated for you?”

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Malorie says.

For a second, it looks like Don might come at her.

“I don’t want to have this discussion,” Cheryl says.

“It’s been over twenty-four hours,” Don says chidingly.

“Just . . . go do something else for a minute, will you?” Felix says. “You’re making this worse for everybody.”

“We need to start considering a future without them.”

“It’s been a day,” Felix says.

“Yeah, a day out there.”

Don sits at the piano. He looks like he might relent, for a moment. Then he continues.

“The good news is that our stock will last longer.”

“Don!” Malorie snaps.

“You have a baby coming, Malorie. Don’t you hope to survive?”

“Don, I could kill you,” Cheryl says.

Don gets up from the piano bench. His face is red with anger.

“Tom and Jules aren’t coming back, Cheryl. Accept it. And when you live an extra week because you were able to eat their share of the food and then you were able to eat Victor, too, then maybe you’ll understand that there’s no such thing anymore as hope.”

Cheryl steps toward him. Her hands are in fists. Her face is inches from Don’s.

Victor barks from the living room.

Felix gets between Don and Cheryl. Don shoves him away. As Malorie steps toward them, Felix’s hand is raised.

He is going to strike Don.

He brings his fist back.

There is a knock at the front door.

twenty-one

Malorie is thinking of Don specifically.

“Mommy,” the Boy says, “the blindfold is hurting me.”

“Scoop some water out of the river, carefully,” Malorie says, “and rub it where it hurts. Do not take off your fold.”

Once, after the housemates had finished dinner, Malorie sat alone with Olympia at the dining room table. They were talking about Olympia’s husband. What he was like. His desire to have a child. Don entered the room alone. He didn’t care what Olympia was saying.

“You oughta blind those babies,” he said. “The second they come out.”

It was as if he’d been thinking about it for a long time, then decided to tell them his decision.

He sat down with them at the table and explained himself. As he did, Olympia grew more withdrawn. She thought it was insane. And worse, she thought it was cruel.

But Malorie didn’t think so. A deep part of her understood what Don was saying. Every moment of her pending motherhood would be centered on protecting the eyes of her child. How much more could be done if this worry were taken away? The seriousness Don wore when he said it conveyed more than cruelty to Malorie. It opened the door to a realm of harrowing possibilities, things that might need to be done, actions she might have to take that nobody from the old world could ever be fully prepared to endure. And the suggestion, dark as it was, never entirely vanished from her mind’s eye.

“It’s better, Mommy,” the Boy says.

“Shhh,” Malorie says. “Listen.”

When the children were six months old, she already had them sleeping in their chicken wire cribs. It was night. The world outside the windows and walls was quiet. The house was dark.

In the early days with the babies, Malorie would often listen to them breathe as they slept. What may have been a touching observation for some mothers was a study for Malorie. Did they sound healthy? Were they getting enough nutrients from well water and the breast milk of a mother who hadn’t had a decent meal in a year? Always, their health was on her mind. Their diet. Their hygiene. And their eyes.

You oughta blind those babies the second they come out.

Sitting at the kitchen table in the dark, Malorie understood clearly that the idea did not pose a moral dilemma as much as it presented her with something she wasn’t sure she was physically capable of doing. Looking toward the hall, listening to their tiny exhales, she believed Don’s idea wasn’t a bad one.

Every waking moment is spent protecting them from looking outside. You check the blankets. You check their cribs. They won’t remember these days when they’re older. They won’t remember sight.

The children, she knew, would not be robbed of anything in the new world if they weren’t able to see it to begin with.

Rising, she stepped to the cellar door. Downstairs, on the cellar’s dirt floor, was a can of paint thinner. Long ago she’d read the side label and knew the danger the substance posed if it made contact with the eyes. A person could go blind, it said, if they didn’t wash it out in thirty seconds.

Malorie went to it. She took its handle and brought it upstairs.

Do it quick. And do not rinse.

They were just babies. Could they possibly remember this? Would they forever fear her, or would it one day be buried beneath a mountain of blind memories?

Malorie crossed the kitchen and entered the dark hall leading to their bedroom.

She could hear them breathing within.

At their door, she paused and looked into the blackness in which they slept.

In this moment, she believed she could do it.

Quietly, Malorie entered the bedroom. She set the can on the floor and removed the cloth lids covering their protected cribs. Neither child stirred. Both continued to breathe steadily, as if experiencing pleasant dreams, far away as possible from the nightmares coming to them.

Quickly, Malorie unhooked the wire lid to the Girl’s crib. She bent and lifted the can.

The Girl breathed, steadily.

Malorie reached into the crib and lifted the baby’s head. She removed the Girl’s blindfold. The Girl started to cry.

Her eyes are open, Malorie thought. Pour it.

She forced the Girl’s head closer to the crib’s edge and then brought the open can of paint thinner inches from her reddening, crying face. The Boy woke behind her and began crying, too.

“Stop it!” Malorie said, fending off tears of her own. “You don’t want to see this world.”

She tilted the can a little farther and felt the contents slide over her hand before splashing on the floor at her feet.

Feeling it on her skin made it real.

She couldn’t do it.

She let go of the baby’s head and the Girl continued to cry.

Setting the can on the ground, Malorie slowly backed out of the bedroom. The children wailed in the darkness.

In the hall, Malorie pressed herself against the wall for support and brought a hand to her mouth. Then she threw up.

“Mommy,” the Boy says now, on the river, “it worked!”

“What worked?” Malorie says, torn from her memories.

“The blindfold doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“Boy,” she says. “No more talking. Unless you hear something.”

Malorie breathes deep and feels something akin to shame. The pain in her shoulder is worse. She is dizzy with fatigue. A deeper sense of disorientation sets in. It feels like something is very wrong within her. Yet, she can hear the children: the Boy breathing in front of her, the Girl fingering puzzle pieces in the back of the rowboat. They are not blind beneath their folds. And today could end with the possibility of an ever newer world, one in which the children would see things they’ve never seen before.

If she can get them there.

twenty-two

Malorie hears something moving on the other side of the door. She hears panting, too. Something is scratching the wood. She and the others are in the foyer. Felix just called out, asked who it was. In the moment between his asking and getting a response, it sounds like the scratching could be made by anything.

Creatures, she thinks.

But it is not creatures at the door. It is Tom and Jules.

“Felix! It’s Tom!”

“Tom!”

“We’re still wearing our helmets. But we’re not alone. We found dogs.”

Felix, sweating, exhales in a big way. For Malorie, the relief is so rich it hurts.

Victor is barking. His tail is wagging. Jules calls to him.

“Victor, buddy! I’m back!”

“All right,” Felix says to the housemates inside. “Close your eyes.”

“Wait,” Don says.

“For what?” Felix says.

“How do we know they’re alone? How do we know they’re not being followed? Who knows what could follow them in?”

Felix pauses. Then he calls to Tom.

“Tom! Are you two alone? Just you two and the dogs?”

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t mean it’s true,” Don says.

“Don,” Malorie says impatiently, “if someone wanted to break in to this house, they could at any time.”

“I’m trying to be safe, Malorie.”

“I know.”

“I live here, too.”

“I know. But Tom and Jules are on the other side of the door. They made it back. We have to let them in now.”

Don holds her gaze. Then he looks to the foyer floor.

“You guys are going to get us killed one day,” he says.

“Don,” Malorie says, seeing that he is, at last, relenting, “we’re going to open the door now.”

“Yes. I know. No matter what I fucking say.”

Don closes his eyes.

Malorie does the same.

“Are you ready, Tom?” Felix calls.

“Yes.”

Malorie hears the front door open. The sounds of paws on the foyer tile make it sound like many people have entered at once.

The front door closes quickly.

“Hand me a broomstick,” Felix says.

Malorie hears the bristles against the walls, the floor, and the ceiling.

“All right,” Felix says. “We’re ready.”

The moment between deciding to open your eyes and then actually doing it is as scary a thing as there is in the new world.

Malorie opens her eyes.

The foyer erupts into color. Two huskies move quickly, smelling the floor, checking out the new people, checking out Victor.

The excitement Malorie feels at seeing Tom’s face is all-encompassing. Yet, he doesn’t look good. He looks exhausted. Dirty. And like he’s been through something Malorie can only imagine.

He holds something in his hand. It’s white. A box. Big enough to carry a small TV. Sounds come from within it. Clucking.

Olympia lunges forward and hugs Tom, who laughs as he’s trying to remove his helmet. Jules has his off and kneels to embrace Victor. Cheryl is crying.

Don’s expression is a mixture of astonishment and shame.

We almost came to blows, Malorie thinks. Tom was gone a day and a half and we almost came to blows.

“Well, oh my God,” Felix says, looking wide-eyed at the new animals. “It worked!”

Tom and Malorie’s eyes meet. He doesn’t have the sparkle he left with.

What did they experience out there?

“These are the huskies,” Jules says, fanning a hand toward the dogs. “They’re friendly. But they take a minute to warm up.”

Then Jules suddenly howls with relief.

Like war veterans coming home, Malorie thinks. From a trip around the block.

“What’s in the box?” Cheryl asks.

Tom raises it higher. His eyes are glassy. Distant.

“In the box, Cheryl,” he says, holding it out with one hand and lifting the lid a little with the other, “are birds.”

The housemates gather around the box in a circle.

“What kind are they?” Olympia asks.

Tom slowly shakes his head.

“We don’t know. Found them in a hunter’s garage. We have no idea how they survived. We think the owners left them a lot of feed. As you can tell, they’re loud. But only when we’re near. We tested it. Whenever we got close to the box, they got louder.”

“So that’s dinner?” Felix asks.

Tom smiles a tired smile.

“An alarm system.”

“Alarm system?” Felix asks.

Jules says, “We’re going to hang the box outside. By the front door. We’ll be able to hear them in here.”

Only a box of birds, Malorie thinks. Yet, it does feel like progress.

Tom closes the lid slowly.

“You’ve got to tell us everything that happened,” Cheryl says.

“We will,” Tom says. “But let’s go in the dining room. The two of us would love to sit down for a minute.”

The housemates smile.

Except Don.

Don who declared them dead. Don who was already counting their rations as his own.

In the hall, Tom sets the box of birds on the floor, against the wall. Then the housemates gather in the dining room. Felix gets some water for Tom and Jules. Once they have their glasses in front of them, they tell the story of what they experienced out there.