Bird Box (12 page)

“Good luck,” she suddenly says, knowing that she would regret it if she didn’t.

“Thank you,” Tom says. “Remember what I said. In twelve hours we’ll be back. Are everybody’s eyes closed?”

The housemates tell him they are.

Then the front door opens. Malorie can hear their shoes upon the front porch. Then the door is shut.

To Malorie, it feels like something imperative has been locked outside.

Twelve hours
.

eighteen

A
s 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

F
ive 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

I
t 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.

“God
damn
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.”