Bird Box - Josh Malerman Page 0,66

She asks the Boy again what he hears.

“I’m sorry, Mommy!” he yells. His voice is cracked with tears. Shame.

He doesn’t know.

It has been years since the Boy wasn’t able to identify a sound. What he hears is something he’s never heard before.

But Malorie believes he can still help.

“How far away are they?” Malorie asks.

But the Boy is crying.

“I can’t do it!”

“Keep your voice down!” she hisses.

Something grunts from the left bank. It sounds like a pig. Then another one. And another.

The river feels too thin. The banks too close.

Does something follow them?

Malorie rows.

thirty-seven

For the first time since arriving at the house, Malorie knows something the others don’t.

Tom and Jules have just returned. As the housemates prepared dinner, Tom brought the new stock of canned goods to the cellar. Malorie met him down there. Maybe Gary kept the notebook because he wanted to study Frank’s writing. Or maybe he wrote it himself. But Tom needed to know. Now.

In the cellar light, he looked tired but triumphant. His fair hair was dirty. His features looked more aged than the first time she was down here with him. He was losing weight. Methodically, he removed cans from his and Jules’s duffel bags and set them on the shelves. He began talking about what it was like inside the grocery store, the stench of so much rotten food, when Malorie found her opportunity.

But just when she did, the cellar door opened.

It was Gary.

“I’d like to help you if I can,” he said to Tom from the top of the stairs.

“All right,” Tom said. “Come on down then.”

Malorie exited as Gary reached the dirt floor.

Now everybody is seated at the dining room table. And Malorie is still looking for her opportunity.

Tom and Jules describe their week slowly. The facts are incredible, but Malorie’s mind is fixed on Gary. She tries to act normal. She listens to what they say. Each minute that passes is another in which Tom doesn’t know that Gary may be a threat to the rest of them.

It almost feels like she and the others are intruding on Gary’s space. Like Gary and Don had the decency to invite them into their dining room, their favorite place for exchanging whispered words. The two have spent so much time in here that it smells of them. Would they have joined the group if dinner was served in the living room? Malorie doesn’t think so.

As Tom describes walking three miles blindfolded, Gary is affable, talkative, and inquisitive. And every time he opens his mouth Malorie wants to yell at him to stop. Come clean first, she wants to say.

But she waits.

“Would you say then,” Gary says, his mouth full of crab, “that you are now convinced animals are not affected?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that,” Tom says. “Not yet. Maybe we just didn’t pass anything for them to see.”

“That’s unlikely,” Gary says.

Malorie almost screams it.

Tom then announces he has another surprise for everyone.

“Your duffel bag is a veritable clown car,” Gary says, smiling.

When Tom returns, he’s carrying a small brown box. From it, he pulls forth eight bicycle horns.

“We got these at the grocery store,” he says. “In the toy aisle.”

He hands them out.

“Mine has my name on it,” Olympia says.

“They all do,” Tom says. “I wrote them, blindfolded, with a Sharpie.”

“What are they for?” Felix asks.

“We’re inching toward a life of spending more time outside,” Tom answers, sitting down. “We can signal one another with these.”

Suddenly, Gary honks his horn. It sounds like a goose. Then it sounds like geese, as everyone honks their horns chaotically.

The circles under Felix’s eyes stretch as he smiles.

“And this,” Tom says, “is the grand finale.” He reaches into his duffel bag and pulls forth a bottle. It’s rum.

“Tom!” Olympia says.

“It’s the real reason I wanted to go back to my house,” he jokes.

Malorie, listening to the housemates laugh, seeing their smiling faces, can stand it no longer.

She stands up and slams her palms on the table.

“I looked through Gary’s briefcase,” she says. “I found the notebook he told us about. The one about tearing the blankets down. The one he said Frank took with him.”

The room goes silent. Every housemate is looking at her. Her cheeks are red with heat. Sweat prickles her hairline.

Tom, still holding the bottle of rum, studies Malorie’s face. Then he slowly turns to Gary.

“Gary?”

Gary looks to the tabletop.

He’s buying time, Malorie thinks. The fucker is buying time to think.

“Well,” he says, “I hardly know what to say.”

“You looked through someone else’s things?” Cheryl