Josh Malerman - Bird Box

But the phone is ringing. Someone is calling back. And Malorie is going to answer it.

Riiiiiiiiiiing

Despite their towel blindfolds, she tells the babies to keep their eyes closed.

This command will be the most common thing she says to them over the next four years. And nothing will stop her from saying it, whether or not they’re too young to understand her.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiing

She slides her ass to the edge of the floor and swings her legs over to rest her feet on the first step. Her body screams at her to stop.

But she continues down.

Down the stairs now. She cradles the boy in her right arm, her palm wrapped around his face. The girl is up inside her shirt. Malorie’s eyes are closed and the world is black and she needs sleep so bad she might as well fall from the stairs and into it. Only she walks, she steps, and she uses the phone as her guide.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing

Her feet touch the light blue carpeting of the second floor’s white hall. Eyes closed, she does not see these colors, just like she does not see Jules lying facedown along the right wall, five bloody streaks trailing from the height of her head to where his hand lies pressed against the floor.

At the top of the stairs, she pauses. She breathes deep. She believes she can do it. Then she continues.

She passes Cheryl but does not know it. Not yet. Cheryl’s head faces the first floor, her feet the second. Her body is horribly, unnaturally contorted.

Without knowing it, Malorie steps inches from her.

She almost touches Felix at the foot of the stairs. But she doesn’t. Later, she will gasp when she feels the holes in his face.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing

She has no idea she passes one of the huskies. It is slumped against the wall; the wall is stained dark purple.

She wants to say, Is anyone still here? She wants to scream it. But the phone rings and she does not believe it will stop until she answers it.

She follows the sound, leaning against the wall.

Rain and wind come in through broken windows.

I must answer the phone .

If her eyes were to open, she would not be able to process the amount of blood marking the house.

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She will see all of that later. But right now the phone is so loud, so close.

Malorie turns, puts her back against the wall, then slides, excruciatingly, to the carpet. The phone is on the small end table. Her body aches and burns, every part of it. Placing the boy beside the girl in her lap, she reaches out with her hand and fumbles for the phone that has been ringing without rest.

“Hello?”

“Hello.”

It’s a man. His voice sounds so calm. So horribly out of place.

“Who is this?” Malorie asks.

She can hardly understand that she is using a telephone.

“My name is Rick. We got your message a few days ago. I guess you could say we’ve been busy. What’s your name?”

“Who is this?”

“Again, my name is Rick. A man named Tom left a message with us.”

“Tom.”

“Yes. He does live there, right?”

“My name is Malorie.”

“Are you okay, Malorie? You sound broken up.”

Malorie breathes deep. She doesn’t think she will ever be okay again.

“Yes,” she answers. “I’m okay.”

“We haven’t got much time right now. Are you interested in getting out from where you are? Somewhere safer? I’m assuming the answer is yes.”

“Yes,” Malorie says.

“Here’s what you do then. Write this down if you can. Do you have a pen?”

Malorie says yes and reaches for the pen kept by Tom’s phone book.

The babies cry.

“It sounds like you have a baby with you?”

“I do.”

“I imagine that’s your reason for wanting to find a better place. Here’s the information, Malorie. Take the river.”

“What?”

“Take the river. Do you know where it is?”

“Y-yes. I do know where it is. It’s right behind the house. Eighty yards from the well, I’m told.”

“Good. Take the river. It’s about as dangerous a thing as you can do, but I imagine if you and Tom have made it this long, you can do it. I found you guys on the map and it looks like you’ll have to travel at least twenty miles. Now, the river is going to split—”

“It’s going to what?”

“I’m sorry. I’m probably moving too fast. But where I’m directing you is a better place.”

“How is that?”

“Well, we don’t have windows for one. We have running water. And we grow our own food. It’s as self-contained as you can find nowadays. There are plenty of bedrooms. Nice ones. Most of us think we’ve got it better now than we did before.”

“How many of you are there?”

“One hundred and eight.”

The number could be any for Malorie. Or it could be infinity.

“But let me tell you how to get here first. It would be a tragedy if the phone line went out before you knew where to go.”

“All right.”

“The river is going to split into four channels. The one you want is the second one from the right. So you can’t hug the right bank and expect to make it. It’s tricky. And you’re going to have to open your eyes.”

Malorie slowly shakes her head. No .

Rick continues.

“And this is how you’ll know when that time comes,” the man tells her. “You’ll hear a recording. A voice. We can’t sit by the river all day every day. It’s just too dangerous. Instead, we’ve got a speaker down there. It’s motion activated. We have a very clear understanding of the woods and water beyond our facility because of devices like it. Once the speaker is activated, the recording plays for thirty minutes, on a loop. You’ll hear it. The same forty-second sound bite repeated. It’s loud. Clear. And when you do, that’s when you’ll have to open your eyes.”

“Thank you, Rick. But I just can’t do that.”

Her voice is listless. Destroyed.

“I understand it’s terrifying. Of course it is. But that’s the catch, I suppose. There’s no other way.”

Malorie thinks of hanging up. But Rick continues.

“We’ve got so many good things happening here. We make progress every day. Of course, we’re nowhere near where we’d like to be. But we’re trying.”

Malorie starts to cry. The words, what this man is telling her—is it hope he gives her? Or is it some deeper variation of the incredible hopelessness she already feels?

“If I do what you’re telling me to do,” Malorie says, “how will I find you from there?”

“From the split?”

“Yes.”

“We have an alarm system. It’s the same technology used for triggering the recording you’ll hear. Once you take the correct channel, you’ll go another hundred yards. Then you’ll trigger our notification alarm. A fence will be lowered. You’ll be stuck. And we’ll come looking for what got stuck in our fence.”

Malorie shivers.

“Oh yeah?” she asks.

“Yes. You sound skeptical.”

Visions of the old world rush through her mind, but with each memory comes a leash, a chain, and an instinctive feeling that tells her this man and this place might be good, might be bad, might be better than where she is now, might be worse, but she will never be free again.

“How many of you are there?” Rick asks.

Malorie listens to the silence of the house. The windows are broken. The door is probably open. She must stand up. Close the door. Cover the windows. But it all feels like it’s happening to someone else.

“Three,” she says, lifeless. “If the number changes—”

“Don’t worry about it, Malorie. Any number you come with is fine. We have space enough for a few hundred and we’re working on more. Just come as soon as you can.”