Josh Malerman - Bird Box

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.