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 grey, 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 towards the door.
‘He’s dead,’ she answers rigidly, scanning the hall for others. Not trusting. Not yet.
Rick begins to tap his walking stick, moving closer to Malorie, reaching out to touch her.
‘Malorie – we’ve contacted many people over the years, but less than you might think. Who knows how many of us are alive out there? And who knows how many are sane? You’re the only person we expected to be coming down the river. That doesn’t mean nobody else could, of course, but after careful thought, we decided Tom’s voice would not only alert you to the fact that you’d arrived, but it would also let strangers know a civilization of some kind was near, if they were to get stopped by the fence first. Had I known he was no longer with you, I’d have insisted we use something else. Please, accept my apology.’
She watches him closely. His voice sounds hopeful, optimistic even. She hasn’t heard a tone of voice like his in a long time. Still, his face wears the stress and age of living in this new world just like hers does. Like the housemates once looked, years ago.
As he and Constance begin to explain how the facility operates, the fields of potatoes and squash, their harvest of berries in the summer, a means of purifying rainwater, Malorie sees a shadowy figure move behind Rick’s head.
A small group of young women emerge from a room wearing plain, light blue clothing. They tap walking sticks, their hands waving in front of them. The women move quietly, ghostly, past Malorie, and she can feel her stomach sink as she sees their cavernous, hollow eyes. She feels light-headed, sick, like she might throw up.
Where the women’s eyes should be are two enormous, dark scars.
Malorie clutches the children tighter. They bury their heads against her legs.
Constance reaches towards her, but Malorie pulls away, frantically searching for her blindfold on the ground, dragging the children with her.
‘She’s seen them,’ Constance says to Rick.
He nods.
‘Stay away from us!’ Malorie pleads. ‘Don’t touch us. Don’t come near us! What is going on here?!’
Constance looks over her shoulder and sees the women exiting the hall. The room is quiet except for Malorie’s panting breaths and quiet sobs.
‘Malorie,’ Rick begins, ‘it’s how we used to do things. We had to. There was no other choice. When we arrived here, we were starving. Like forgotten settlers in a foreign, hostile land. We didn’t have the amenities we have now. We needed food. So we hunted. Unfortunately, we didn’t have the security we have now, either. One night, while a handful were out, searching for food, a creature got in. We lost many people that night. A mother, who one moment was completely rational, snapped and killed four children in a fit of rage. It took us months to recover, to rebuild. We vowed to never take that risk again. For the good of the whole community.’
Malorie looks to Constance, who has no scars.
‘It wasn’t a matter of choice,’ Rick continues. ‘We blinded ourselves with whatever we had – forks, kitchen knives, our fingers. Blindness, Malorie, was the absolute protection. But that was the old way. We don’t do that anymore. After a year, we realized we’d fortified this place enough to lighten this awful burden on our shoulders. So far, we’ve had no security lapses.’
Malorie thinks of George and his video, the failed experiments. She remembers how she almost blinded her children in an act of sacrificial desperation.
Constance can see. She isn’t blind. Had you found the courage four years ago, Malorie thinks, who knows what would have happened to you. To the children.
Rick leans on Constance for support.
‘If you had been here, you would understand.’
Malorie is frightened. But she does understand. And in her desperation, she wants to trust these people. She wants to believe she has led the children somewhere better.
Turning, she catches a reflection of herself in an office window. She hardly resembles the woman she once was, when she checked the flatness of her belly in the bathroom, as Shannon shouted about the news on the television in the other room. Her hair is thin, matted, and caked with dirt and the blood of so many birds. Her scalp, raw and red, is visible in patches. Her body is gaunt. The bones in her face have shifted – her delicate features have been replaced with sharp and angular ones – her skin tight and sallow. She opens her mouth slightly to reveal a chipped tooth. She must have damaged it when she lost consciousness on the river. Her skin is bloodied, bruised, and pale. The deep gash from the wolf mars her swollen arm. Still, she can see that something powerful burns within the woman in the glass. A fire that has propelled her for four and a half years, that demanded she survive, that commanded her to make a better life for her children.
Exhausted, free from the house, free from the river, Malorie falls to her knees. She pulls away the blindfolds from the children’s faces. Their eyes are open, blinking and straining against the bright lights. The Boy and Girl stare in awe, quiet and unsure. They do not understand where they are and look to Malorie for guidance. This is the first place they have seen outside the house in their entire lives.
Neither cries. Neither complains. They stare up at Rick, listening.
‘Like I said,’ Rick says cautiously, ‘we’re able to do a lot of things here. The facility is much bigger than this hall implies. We grow all of our own food and have managed to capture a few animals. There’s chickens for fresh eggs, a cow for milk, and two goats we’ll be able to breed. One day soon we hope to go in search of more animals, to build a little farm.’
She breathes deep and looks at Rick for the first time with hope.
Goats, she thinks. Other than fish, the children have never seen a living animal.
‘At Tucker, we’re completely self-sufficient – we’ve got a whole medical team dedicated to rehabilitating those who are blind. This place should bring you some peace, Malorie. It does for me every day.’
‘And you two,’ Constance says, kneeling by the children. ‘What a
re your names?’
It’s as if this is the first time the question has ever mattered to Malorie. Suddenly there is room in her life for such luxuries as names.
‘This,’ Malorie says, placing a bloodied hand on the Girl’s head, ‘this is Olympia.’
The Girl looks at Malorie quickly. She blushes. She smiles. She likes it.
‘And this,’ Malorie says, pressing the Boy to her body, ‘is Tom.’
He grins, shy and happy.
On her knees, Malorie hugs her children and cries hot tears that are better than any laughter she’s ever felt.
Relief.
Her tears flow freely, softly, as she thinks of her housemates working together to bring water from the well, sleeping on the living room floor, discussing the new world. She sees Shannon, laughing, finding shapes and figures in the clouds, curious with warmth and kindness, doting on Malorie.
She thinks of Tom. His mind always working, solving a problem. Always trying .
She thinks of his love for living.
In the distance, farther down the long school hall, others emerge from different rooms. Rick places a hand on Constance’s shoulder as they begin to walk farther into the facility. It’s as if this whole place knows to give Malorie and her children a moment to themselves. As if everyone and everything understands that, at last, they are safe.
Safer.
Now, here, hugging the children, it feels to Malorie like the house and the river are just two mythical locations, lost somewhere in all that infinity.
But here, she knows, they are not quite as lost.
Or alone.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While writing Bird Box, I heard mention of a mythological creature known as the Lawyer. Because this news came to me from a good friend, I happily agreed to meet one. On the way, I confessed to said friend that I had no idea what someone like myself would do with a Lawyer. ‘I’ve got nothing to law!’ But my friend assured me – and he was right to. Wayne Alexander did more than ‘law,’ as he read this tale and told me an abundance of his own, each more compelling than the last.
Soon, Wayne informed me of a second fabled being: the Manager. I was inclined to confess, ‘But I’ve nothing to manage!’ Undeterred, Wayne introduced me to a duo, Managers – Candace Lake and Ryan Lewis who, like Wayne, did much more than their professional title implied. Not only did we read Bird Box together, but we began toying with it; our e-mails tallying a higher word count than the book itself. Along the way, we became friends (Ryan’s phone in particular has become something of a notebook for me, flooded with ideas as small as ‘Hey! Janitor closets are kinda scary!’ and as lofty as ‘What do you think of a thousand-page movie script?’)
Eventually, Candace and Ryan began speaking of yet a third, impossible entity: the Agent. ‘But I’ve nothing to agent!’ Mercifully, they ushered me toward one. Kristin Nelson quickly taught me that, though it’s delightful to have one thousand ideas, it’s just as worthy to make one of them presentable. We went deeper with Bird Box. Kristin and I fed the book, starved it, then fed it again. We dressed it up in funny clothes, sometimes keeping only a glove or only the hat. Other times it would sing to us, not unlike Tom’s birds, letting us know when it was content.
And when Bird Box was ready, Kristin made mention of a fourth and final shadowy personage: the Editor. This time I was scared. ‘But I do have something to edit! Oh no!’ In my imagination, the Editor meditated in a mountain-cave, espoused the rules of grammar, and frowned upon speculative fiction. But, of course, it didn’t turn out that way. Lee Boudreaux is as much an artist as the writers she works with. And the ideas she suggested were great, original, and even scary.
Lee and all of Ecco, THANK YOU. And Harper Voyager in the UK, THANK YOU.
And, Dave Simmer, my friend, thank you, too, for introducing me to the Lawyer, and for opening that mythical door to begin with.
Copyright
HarperVoyager
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2014
Copyright © Josh Malerman 2014
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014
Cover photographs © Julio Calvo / Millennium Images.
Josh Malerman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007529872
Ebook Edition © MARCH 2014 ISBN: 9780007529896
Version: 2014-03-07
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