Текст книги "Bird box"

Автор книги: Josh Malerman

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

twenty-three

The moment the door closes behind them, Tom is more afraid than he thought he’d be.

Out here, the creatures are closer.

When we get to the street, Tom thinks, far enough from the house, will they attack us?

He imagines cold hands closing over his own. His throat slit. His neck broken. His mind destroyed.

But Tom is very aware that no report described a man being attacked.

This is the way to think, he decides, still standing on the front porch. Forcing this philosophy deeper into his mind, searching for the soil of its roots, he allows himself to breathe, slowly. As he does, other feelings emerge.

For one, there is the unbridled, slightly reckless, sense of freedom.

Tom has been outside since arriving at the house. He’s retrieved water from the well as often as anyone. He’s carried shit and piss to the trenches. But this time it’s different. The air feels different. Just before he and Jules agree to start walking, a breeze passes over them. It moves across his neck. His elbows. His lips. It’s one of the strangest feelings he’s ever known. It calms him. As the creatures lurk behind every tree and street sign in his piqued imagination, the clean, open air brings him giddiness.

If only for a moment.

“Are you ready, Jules?” he says.

“Yes.”

Like truly blind men, they tap the ground before them with broomsticks. They step from the porch. Within three feet, Tom senses he’s no longer walking on concrete. With the lawn beneath him, it’s as if the house has vanished. He is out to sea. Vulnerable. For a second, he’s not sure he can do this.

So he thinks of his daughter.

Robin. I’m just going to get us some dogs.

This is good. This helps him.

The broomstick passes over what must be the curb and Tom steps onto the concrete of the street. Here he stops and kneels. On his knees, he searches for a corner of the front lawn. He finds it. Then he removes a small wood stake from his duffel bag and jams it into the earth.

“Jules,” he says, “I’ve marked our lawn. We may need the help finding our way back.”

When he rises and turns, Tom bumps hard into the hood of a car.

“Tom,” Jules says, “are you okay?”

Tom steadies himself.

“Yes,” he says, “I think I just walked into Cheryl’s Wagoneer. I feel wood paneling.”

The sounds of Jules’s boots and broomstick guide Tom away from the car.

Under different circumstances, with the sun shining against only his eyelids, with no blindfold and helmet to obscure it, Tom knows he’d be passing through a peach and orange world. His closed eyes would see colors change with the clouds, shift with the shadows of the treetops and roofs. But today he sees only black. And somewhere in the blackness he imagines Robin, his daughter. Small, innocent, brilliant. She is encouraging him to walk, walk, Daddy, farther from the house, toward things that could help those still inside.

“Fuck!” Jules says. Tom hears him fall to the street.

“Jules!”

Tom freezes.

“Jules, what happened?”

“I tripped over something. Do you feel it? It felt like a suitcase.”

Using his broom, Tom traces a wide arc. The bristles come to an object. Tom crawls to it. Setting the broom beside him on the hot pavement, he uses both hands to feel for what is lying here in the middle of the street. It doesn’t take long before he knows what it is.

“It’s a body, Jules.”

Tom can hear Jules standing up.

“It’s a woman, I think,” Tom says. Then he quickly removes his hands from her face.

He rises and the two continue.

It all feels too fast. Things are moving too quickly already. In the old world, discovering a dead body in the street would have taken hours to assimilate.

Yet, they continue.

They cross a lawn until they reach some bushes. Behind the bushes is a house.

“Here,” Jules says. “It’s a window. I’m touching the glass of a window.”

Following his voice, Tom joins Jules at the window. They feel along the bricks of the house until they reach the front door. Jules knocks. He calls hello. He knocks again. They wait. Tom speaks. He worries that in this silent world, his voice might attract something. But he doesn’t see a choice. He explains to any possible inhabitants that they mean no harm, that they’re here to look for more supplies, anything that might help. Jules knocks again. They wait again. There is no movement from within.

“Let’s go in,” Jules says.

“Okay.”

They walk back to the window. From his duffel bag, Tom removes a small towel. He wraps it around his fist. Then he punches through the glass. It meets no blanket. No cardboard. No wood. This, he knows, means that whoever lived here did so without protection.

Maybe they left town before things went really bad. Maybe they’re safe somewhere else.

Tom calls into the house through the broken window.

“Is anybody in here?”

Getting no response, Jules clears the glass. Then he helps Tom crawl through. Inside, Tom knocks something over. It lands with a heavy thud. Jules climbs in through the window behind him.

Then they hear music, a piano, in the room with them.

Tom raises his broomstick to defend himself. But Jules is talking to him.

“I did that, Tom!” he says. “I’m sorry, my broom hit the piano.”

Tom is breathing heavily. As he calms himself, the two are silent.

“We can’t open our eyes in here,” Jules quietly says.

“I know,” Tom says. “There’s a cross breeze. There’s another window open.”

He wants so badly to be able to open his eyes. But the house is not safe.

“Still, we’re here,” Tom says. “Let’s take what we can.”

But most of the first floor is empty of anything useful. In the kitchen, they search the cupboards. Tom slaps his hands around a shelf until he finds some batteries. Small candles. Pens. As he puts each item into his duffel bag, he announces it to Jules.

“Let’s move on,” Tom says.

“What about the upstairs?”

“I don’t like it here. And if there was any food, it’d be down here.”

Using the broomsticks, they find their way to the front door, unlock it, and step outside again. They do not walk back to the street. Instead, they cross the lawn to the neighbor’s house, one farther yet from their own.

On a second front porch, they carry out the same ritual. They knock. They announce themselves. They wait. When they hear no movement inside, they break a window. Jules does it this time.

His fist comes in contact with some kind of weak protection. He thinks it’s cardboard.

“There could be somebody in here,” he whispers.

They wait for a response to the noise they’ve made. There is none. Tom calls out. He tells the house that they are neighbors. That they are looking for animals and can offer shelter in exchange. There is no response. Jules clears the glass and helps Tom through the window.

Inside, they repair the cardboard.

Using their brooms, they check the place. This takes hours to do. Moving with their backs against each other, they swing their brooms in arcs. Tom leads, telling Jules where to go. When they are done, when they’re convinced the house is empty, the windows are covered, and the doors are all locked, Tom declares the house safe.

Both men understand what must come next.

They’re going to remove their helmets and blindfolds and open their eyes. Neither has seen anything but the inside of their house for many months now.

Jules moves first. Tom hears him unfastening his helmet. Then he does the same. After sliding his blindfold up to his hairline, Tom turns, eyes closed, to face Jules.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

The two men open their eyes.

Once, as a child, Tom and a friend snuck into a neighbor’s house through an unlocked back door. There was no plan, no agenda. They just wanted to see if they could do it. But they got more than they hoped for when, hiding in a pantry, they were forced to wait the entire duration of the family’s dinner. When they were finally outside again, his friend asked him how he felt about it.

“Dirty,” he said then.

His eyes open now, inside a stranger’s home, he feels the same way.

This is not their house. But they’re in it. These are not their things. But they could be. A family lived here. They had a child. Tom recognizes a toy or two. A photo tells him that it was a boy. His fair hair and young smile remind Tom of Robin. In a way, every single thing Tom has encountered since Robin’s death has reminded him of her. And being here, in a stranger’s home, he imagines the way they once lived. The child telling Mom and Dad what he heard about at school. Dad reading the earliest reports in the newspaper. Mom calling the child inside. All of them, together on the couch, watching the news, frightened, as Dad reaches across their son and takes Mom’s hand.

Robin.

There is no evidence of a pet. No forgotten chew toy. No cat’s bed. And no smell of a dog. But it is the absence of people Tom thinks about.

“Tom,” Jules says. “You check upstairs. I’ll continue down here.”

“Okay.”

At the foot of the stairs, Tom looks up. He pulls his blindfold from his pocket and ties it around his eyes again. Despite their having checked the house, Tom can’t bring himself to climb the stairs with his eyes open.

Did they check well enough?

Climbing, he uses the broom to guide him. His shoulder brushes against hanging photos. He thinks of George’s photo, hanging on the wall at home. His boot tip catches a stair and he stumbles forward. There is carpet beneath his hands. He gets back up. More stairs. So many that it feels impossible, like he’s walked through the roof of the house already.

At last, the bristles tell him he’s reached the top. But his mind is behind the broom and he stumbles again, this time into a wall. It is silent up here. He kneels and sets the broomstick beside him. Then he takes the duffel bag and unzips it, searching for the flashlight. He’s got it. Rising again, he uses the broom to guide him. Turning right, his wrist knocks into something cold and hard. He pauses and feels it. It’s glass, he thinks. A vase. There’s a bad smell. He didn’t smell it before. His hand comes to a gathering of crinkly, dead leaves. Slowly feeling along the stalks, he understands they are flowers. Roses perhaps. Long dead. He turns left again. The smell of the dead roses fades as he’s confronted with something much stronger.

He stops in the hall. How could he and Jules have missed this smell?

“Hello?”

There is no response. Tom covers his nose and mouth with his free hand. The stench is awful. He continues down the hall. Coming to a door on his right, Tom enters a room. It’s a bathroom. The bristles echo on the tile. There is a damp, moldy smell of unused plumbing. He pokes at the shower curtain and checks the tub with the broom. Then he finds the medicine cabinet. There are pill bottles. Tom pockets them. He kneels and rifles through the cabinets beneath the sink. He hears something behind him and he turns.

He is facing the bathtub.

You just checked it. There was nothing in there.

One hand is on the counter behind him. The other slowly raises the broom. He holds it out before him, blindfolded.

“Is someone in here with me?”

He inches forward, toward the tub.

He swings the broom once. Then twice.

His stomach is turning. Hot. The smell.

Tom lunges forward and swings the broom wildly about the bathtub. He checks the ceiling above it. Then, stepping back again, he lets the broom fall to the bathroom floor, where it connects with something and makes the same sound he heard while kneeling before the cabinets.

He quickly locates a plastic bottle. It’s empty.

Tom sighs.

He exits the room and continues down the hall. Quickly, he comes to another door. This one is closed. He can hear Jules moving faintly downstairs. Tom breathes deep and opens the door. It is cold in here. The broom tells him there is something in front of him. He feels for it and discovers a mattress. It’s a little bed. Without opening his eyes, he knows this is the boy’s bedroom. He closes the door, searches the room entirely with the broom, then turns on the light.

Then he takes off his blindfold and opens his eyes.

Pennants hang from the wall. Local sports teams. One for the zoo. The bedcover is Formula 1 racing cars. It is stuffy in here. Unused. Because the electricity works, he puts the flashlight back into his pack. A brief search tells him there is nothing of real use in here. He thinks of Robin’s bedroom.

He closes his eyes again and leaves.

Farther down the hall the smell grows more terrible. He can’t leave his mouth uncovered. At the end of the hall, he comes to a wall. As he turns, the broomstick connects with a door behind him. Tom freezes as the door slowly opens.

Did you and Jules check this room? DID YOU?!

“Hello?”

There is no response. Tom enters slowly. He turns on the lights and searches the walls for windows. He finds two. Both heavily fortified with wood. The room is big.

It’s the master bedroom.

He crosses the room. The smell is so strong in here it feels physical, like he can touch it. The broomstick guides him to what feels like a walk-in closet. Clothes. Coats. He thinks of taking them with him. He thinks of the winter they will soon face.

Turning, he discovers another, smaller door. A second bathroom. Again he checks the medicine cabinet and the drawers. More pill bottles. Toothpaste. Toothbrushes. He searches for a window. He finds one. Covered in wood. He uses the broom to guide him out of the bathroom. He closes the door behind him.

Believing he’s checked the windows, believing he is safe, Tom, standing by the closet, opens his eyes.

A child is sitting on the bed, looking at him.

Tom closes his eyes.

Is this what the creatures look like?

You weren’t safe! YOU WEREN’T SAFE!

His heart is thundering. What did he see? It was a face. An old face? No, it was young. Young? But decayed. He wants to call to Jules. But the longer his eyes are closed, the clearer the image becomes.

It was the boy. From the photos downstairs.

He opens his eyes again.

The boy is wearing a suit. Propped against a dark headboard, his face is unnaturally turned toward Tom. His eyes are open. His mouth hangs. His hands are folded across his lap.

You starved here, Tom thinks. In your parents’ bedroom.

Stepping toward him, his mouth and nose covered, Tom compares him to the photos. The boy looks mummified. Shrunken.

How long ago did you die? How close was I to getting you out of here?

He stares into the boy’s dead eyes.

Robin, he thinks. I’m so sorry.

“Tom!” Jules yells from below.

Tom turns.

He crosses the room and enters the hall.

“Jules! Are you okay?”

“Yes! Yes! Come quick! I’ve found a dog.”

Tom is torn. The father in him doesn’t want to leave this boy. Robin lies in a grave behind the house he left a long time ago.

“If I would have known you were here,” Tom says, turning toward the master bedroom, “I would have come sooner.”

Then he turns and rushes to the stairs.

Jules found a dog.

He meets Jules at the bottom. Before Tom has a chance to tell him about the boy, Jules is walking through the kitchen, talking about what he’s found. At the head of the basement stairs, Jules points and tells Tom to look. Closely.

At the foot of the stairs, lying on their backs, are the parents. They are dressed as if for church. Their clothes are torn at the shoulders. On the mother’s chest is a piece of notebook paper. In marker, someone has written: ReStiNg pEaCe

“I just found the boy who wrote that,” Tom says. “The boy who laid them here.”

“They must have starved,” Jules says. “There’s no food in here. I have no idea what he survived on.”

Jules is pointing past the parents. Tom crouches and sees a husky hunched between fur coats on a dress rack.

He is close to emaciated. Tom imagines he’s been feeding on the dead parents.

Jules removes some meat from his duffel bag, rips off a piece, and tosses it down to the dog. At first, the dog slowly comes out. Then he devours it.

“Is he friendly?” Tom says quietly.

“I’ve discovered,” Jules says, “that a dog will become fast friends with the people who feed him.”

Jules carefully tosses more meat down the stairs. He speaks encouragingly.

But the dog takes work. And time.

The two men spend the rest of the day in the house. With the meat, Jules is forging a bond. As he does, Tom searches the same places Jules already has. There is very little that they don’t have at the house already. He finds no phone book. No food.

Jules, knowing dogs much better than Tom, tells him that they aren’t ready to leave. That the dog is too erratic, doesn’t trust him yet.

Tom thinks of the twelve hours he gave the housemates for their return. A clock, it seems, is ticking.

Finally, Jules tells Tom he thinks the dog is ready to leave the house.

“Then let’s get going,” Tom says. “We’ll have to keep working with him as we go. We can’t sleep here, with this smell of death.”

Jules agrees. But it takes a few attempts to leash the dog. More time passes. When Jules finally does it, Tom has decided that twelve hours be damned; one afternoon has delivered them a dog, who knows what tomorrow morning might bring.

Still, the clock is ticking.

In the home’s foyer, they fasten their blindfolds and put their helmets back on. Then Tom unlocks the front door and they exit the house. Now Tom uses his broomstick, but Jules uses the dog. The husky pants.

Crossing the lawn again, going farther yet from Malorie, Don, Cheryl, Felix, and Olympia, they come to another house.

This one, Tom hopes, is where they’ll spend the night. If the windows are protected, if a search brings them confidence, and if they aren’t greeted with the smell of death.

twenty-four

The pain in Malorie’s shoulder is so exact, so detailed, that she can see its outline in her mind. She can see it move as her shoulder moves. It’s not a bright pain like it was when it happened. Now it’s deep and dull and throbbing. Muted colors of decay rather than the explosive hues of impact. She imagines what the floor of the rowboat must look like right now. Piss. Water. Blood. The children asked her if she was okay. She told them she was. But they know when they’re lied to. Malorie has trained them beyond words.

She is not crying right now, but she was. Silent tears behind her blindfold. Silent to her. But the children can pluck sounds from the silence.

Okay, guys, she used to say, sitting around the kitchen table. Close your eyes.

They did.

What am I doing?

You are smiling.

That’s right, Girl. How did you know?

You breathe different when you smile, Mommy.

And the next day they would do it again.

You’re crying, Mommy!

That’s right. And why would I cry?

You’re sad.

That’s not the only reason.

You’re scared!

That’s right. Let’s try another one.

Now the water is getting colder. Malorie feels its spray with each grueling row.

“Mommy,” the Boy says.

“What?”

She is immediately alert at the sound of his voice.

“Are you okay?”

“You already asked me that.”

“But you don’t sound okay.”

“I said I am. That means I am. Don’t question me.”

“But,” the Girl says, “you’re breathing differently!”

She is. She knows she is. Laboring, she thinks.

“It’s only because of the rowing,” she lies.

How many times did she question her duty as a mother as she trained the children into becoming listening machines? For Malorie, watching them develop was sometimes horrific. Like she was left to care for two mutant children. Small monsters. Creatures in their own right capable of learning how to hear a smile. Able to tell her if she was scared before she knew it herself.

The shoulder wound is bad. And for years now Malorie has feared sustaining an injury of this magnitude. There were other instances. Close calls. Falling down the cellar stairs when the children were two. Tripping while carrying a bucket back from the well, banging her head on a rock. She thought she broke her wrist once. A chipped tooth. It’s difficult to remember what her legs once looked like without bruises. And now the flesh of her shoulder feels peeled from her body. She wants to stop the boat. She wants to find a hospital. Run through the streets, screaming, I need a doctor, I need a doctor, I NEED A DOCTOR OR I’M GOING TO DIE AND THE CHILDREN WILL DIE WITHOUT ME!!

“Mommy,” the Girl says.

“What is it?”

“We’re facing the wrong way.”

“What?”

As she’s grown more exhausted, she’s overused her stronger arm. Now she rows against the current and didn’t even know it.

Suddenly, the Boy’s hand is upon hers. Malorie recoils at first, then understands. His fingers over hers, he moves, with her, as if turning the crank of the well.

In all this cold, painful world, the Boy, hearing her struggle, is helping her row.