Malorie

by Josh Malerman

  Beyond them, the madness does not quell. Boots clamor up and down the halls. Glass breaks. Children scream.

  “No,” Malorie says. Then, frantic, “I don’t know. I have no plan. Take these.”

  She hands them each a blanket.

  “Cover yourselves from head to toe.”

  She thinks of blind Annette, blue robe, red hair, the knife.

  “They can touch us now,” she says.

  “Mom,” Tom says, but Malorie reaches out and takes his hand. The violence swells, swallowing the questions he was close to asking.

  Olympia takes Malorie’s other hand.

  Malorie breathes in, she holds it, she breathes out.

  “Now,” she says. “Now…we go.”

  They step, together, out of the classroom and into the hall.

  “The front door,” she says.

  The same door they entered two years ago, Malorie’s body and mind then ravaged by rowing and the constant bowstring terror of navigating the water blind.

  And the fear then, too, of a man named Gary.

  “Malorie?”

  Malorie, under the blanket, grips the hands of her children. It’s a man named Jesse who speaks to her. Malorie knows Jesse, when sane, had a crush on her. He does not sound sane now.

  “Malorie? Where are you taking the kids?”

  “Go,” Malorie says. She does not turn around. She does not answer Jesse, who now follows close behind.

  “Malorie,” he says. “You can’t go.”

  Malorie makes a fist, turns, and swings.

  Her fist connects with what she believes is Jesse’s jaw.

  He cries out.

  She grips the hands of her children.

  Tom and Olympia move in concert with her, the trio making for the open front door.

  “My blindfold worked,” Tom says. Still, despite the horror, there is pride in his voice.

  “It’s here,” Olympia says, indicating the door.

  Malorie places a palm against the doorjamb. She listens for Jesse. For anyone.

  She breathes in. She holds it. She breathes out.

  “How many are out there?” she asks. “How many do you hear?”

  The kids are quiet. The frenzy continues deeper into the school. But it feels far now. Farther. Malorie knows Tom wants to answer her questions exactly. But he can’t.

  “Too many to count,” he says.

  “Olympia?”

  A pause. A crash from far behind. A scream.

  “A lot,” Olympia says.

  “Okay. Okay. Don’t take the blankets off. Wear them until I tell you otherwise. They touch us now. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Tom says.

  “Yes,” Olympia says.

  Malorie tries to close her eyes a third time. Tries to shutter her imagination to what lurks outside.

  A lot.

  She tries to close her eyes a fourth time, a fifth, a sixth. She wants to say something about how unfair this is. She wants to tell someone her age. Someone raised before the creatures came. How it shouldn’t be that a mother and her children have to flee the place they call home, so suddenly, to enter a world where the threats are worse than those they leave behind.

  She grips the hands of her children and takes the first step away from the Jane Tucker School for the Blind.

  This is the new world. This is how things are and how they have been for many years.

  From hysteria to the complete unknown.

  The three of them, blind, draped in cloth, setting out.

  Alone.

  Again.

  ONE

  Tom is getting water from the well. It’s something he’s done every other day for the better part of a decade, the three of them having called Camp Yadin home for that long. Olympia believes the camp was once an outpost in the American frontier days. She’s read almost every book in the camp library (more than a thousand), including books on the history of Michigan. She says the camp lodge was most likely once a saloon. Cabin One was the jail. Tom doesn’t know if she’s right, though he has no reason not to believe her. It was a Jewish summer camp when the creatures came, that much is for sure. And now, it’s home.

  “Hand over hand,” he says, taking the rope that connects Cabin Three to the stone lip of the well. He says it because, despite the ropes that tie every building to one another (and even link Cabin Ten to the H dock on the lake), he’s trying to come up with a better way to move about.

  Tom loathes the blindfolds. Sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly lazy, he doesn’t use one at all. He keeps his eyes closed. But his mother’s never-ending rules remain firm in his mind.

  Closing your eyes isn’t enough. You could be startled into opening them. Or something could open them for you.

  Sure. Yes. In theory Malorie is right. In theory she usually is. But who wants to live in theory? Tom is sixteen years old now. He was born into this world. And nothing’s tried to open his eyes yet.

  “Hand over hand.”

  He’s almost there. Malorie insists that he check the water before bringing it up. She’s told him the story of two men named Felix and Jules many times. How his namesake, Tom the man, tested the water the two brought back, the water everybody was worried could be contaminated by a creature. Tom the teen likes that part of the story. He relates to the test. He even relates to the idea of new information about the creatures. Anything would be more to work with than what they have. But he’s not worried about something swimming in their drinking water. The filter he invented himself has taken care of that.

  And besides, despite the way Malorie carries on, even she can’t believe water can go mad.

  “Here!” he says.

  He reaches out and touches the lip before bumping into it. He’s made this walk so many times that he could run it and still stop before the stone circle.

  He leans over the edge and yells into the dark tunnel.

  “Get out of there!”

  He smiles. His voice echoes—the sound is a rich one—and Tom likes to imagine it’s someone else calling back up to him. For as lucky as they are to have chanced upon an abandoned summer camp with numerous buildings and amenities, life gets lonely out here.

  “Tom is the best!” he hollers, just to hear the echo.

  Nothing stirs in the water below, and Tom begins to bring the bucket up. It’s a standard crank, made of steel, and he’s repaired it more than once. He oils it regularly, too, as the camp giveth in all ways; a supply cellar in the main lodge that brought Malorie to tears ten years ago.

  “A pipeline that delivers water directly to us,” Tom says, cranking. “We could put it exactly where the rope is now. It passes through the existing filter. All we’d have to do is turn a dial, and presto. Clean water comes right to us. No more hand over hand on the rope. We wouldn’t have to leave the cabin at all.”

  Not that the walk is difficult. And any excuse to get outside is a good one. But Tom wants things to improve.

  It’s all he thinks about.

  The bucket up, he removes it from its hooks and carries it back to Cabin Three, the largest of the cabins, the one he, Olympia, and Malorie have slept in most of these years. Mom Rules won’t allow Tom or Olympia to sleep anywhere else, despite their growing needs, a rule that Tom has so far followed.

  Spend all day in another one if you need to. But we sleep together.

  Still. A decade in.

  Tom shakes his head and tries to laugh it off. What else is there to do? Olympia has told him in private about the differences in generations that she’s read about in her books. She says it’s common for teenagers to feel like their parents are “from another planet.” Tom definitely agrees with the writers on that front. Malorie acts as if every second of every day could be the moment they all go mad. And Tom and Olym
pia both have pondered aloud, in their own ways, the worth of a life in which the only aim is to keep living.

  “Okay, Mom,” Tom says, smiling. It’s easier for him to smile about this stuff than not. The few times outsiders have passed through their camp, their home, Tom has been able to glean how much stricter Malorie is than most. He’s heard it in the voices of others. He saw it regularly at the school for the blind. Often, it was embarrassing, living under her thumb in public. People looked at her like she was….what’s the word Olympia used?

  Abusive.

  Yes. That’s it. Whether or not Olympia thinks Malorie is abusive doesn’t matter. Tom thinks she is.

  But what can he do? He can leave his blindfold inside. He can keep notes and dream of inventing ways to push back against the creatures. He can refuse to wear long sleeves and a hood on the hottest day of the year. Like today.

  At the cabin’s back door, he hears movement on the other side. It’s not Olympia, it’s Malorie. This means he can’t simply open the door and place the bucket of water inside. He needs to put that hood on after all.

  “Shit,” Tom says.

  So many little dalliances, so many quirks of his mother’s that get in the way of him existing on his own, the way he’d have it done.

  He sets the bucket in the grass and takes the long-sleeved hoodie from the hook outside. His arms through the sleeves, he doesn’t bother with the hood. Malorie will only check an arm.

  The bucket in hand again, he knocks five times.

  “Tom?” Malorie calls.

  But who else would it be?

  “Yep. Bucket one.”

  He will gather four buckets today. The same number he always retrieves.

  “Are your eyes closed?”

  “Blindfolded, Mom.”

  The door opens.

  Tom hands the bucket over the threshold. Malorie takes it. But not without touching his arm in the process.

  “Good boy,” she says.

  Tom smiles. Malorie hands him a second bucket and closes the door. Tom removes the hoodie and puts it back on the hook.

  It’s easy to fool your mom when she’s not allowed to look at you.

  “Hand over hand,” he says. Though really now he’s just walking alongside the rope, bucket in one hand. Malorie’s told him many times how they did it in the house on Shillingham, the house where Tom was born. They tied the rope around their waists and got water in pairs. Olympia says Malorie talks about that house more often than she realizes. But they both know she only talks about it up to a point. Then, nothing. As if the ending of the story is too dark, and repeating it might bring it back upon her.

  At the well, his arms bare below the short sleeves, Tom secures the second bucket and turns the crank. The metal clangs against the stone as it always does but despite the contained cacophony, Tom hears a foot upon the grass to his left. He hears what he thinks are wheels, too.

  A wheelbarrow pushed past the well.

  He stops cranking. The bucket takes a moment to settle.

  Someone’s here. He can hear them breathing.

  He thinks of the hoodie hanging on the hook.

  Another step. A shoe. Dry grass flattens in a different way beneath a bare foot than it does the solid sole of a shoe.

  A person, then.

  He does not ask who it is. He doesn’t move at all.

  A third step and Tom wonders if the person knows he’s here. Surely they had to have heard him?

  “Hello?”

  It’s a man’s voice. Tom hears paper rustling, like when Olympia flips pages while reading. Does the man have books?

  Tom is scared. But he’s thrilled, too.

  A visitor.

  Still, he does not answer. Some of Malorie’s rules make more sense in the moment.

  Tom steps away from the well. He could run to the cabin’s back door. It wouldn’t be difficult, and he’d know when to stop.

  In his personal darkness, he’s all ears.

  “I’d like to speak to you,” the man says.

  Tom takes another step. His fingertips touch the rope. He turns to face the house.

  He hears the small wheels creak. Imagines weapons in the barrow.

  Then he’s moving fast, faster than he’s ever taken this walk before.

  “Hey,” the man says.

  But Tom is at the back door and knocking five times before the man says another word.

  “Tom?”

  “Yes. Hurry.”

  “Are your—”

  “Mom. Hurry.”

  Malorie opens the back door and Tom nearly knocks her over as he rushes inside.

  “What’s going on?” Olympia asks.

  “Mom—” Tom begins.

  But there is a knock at the front door.

  The door is thin and old. Malorie has expressed worry before; it isn’t enough to stop anything, or anyone, from coming in.

  “It’s a man,” Tom says. But Malorie has already tapped him on the shoulder. He knows what this means. He knows also that Olympia received the same tap.

  Tom doesn’t speak again.

  “Hello in there,” the man says on the other side of the cabin door. “I’m with the census.”

  Malorie doesn’t respond. Tom thinks of the rustling papers he heard. A barrow full?

  “Do you know what the census is?”

  Malorie doesn’t respond. Tom thinks he might have to do something. If the man tries to break the door down, he’s going to have to do something.

  “I don’t mean to frighten you,” the man says. “I could come back another time. But it’s hard to say when that will be.”

  Malorie doesn’t respond. Tom knows she won’t.

  He wants to ask Olympia what a census is.

  “I just wanna talk to you. However many there are in there. It could save lives.”

  Malorie doesn’t respond.

  “What does he want?” Tom whispers. Malorie grabs his wrist to quiet him.

  “So, what I do,” the man says, “I go around gathering stories. I gather information. I know quite a bit about failed attempts at trying to look at the creatures. I know of successes people have had in terms of living better lives. Did you know there is a working train now?”

  Malorie doesn’t respond. Suddenly, Tom wants to.

  “Right here in Michigan…a train. And did you know there are more creatures now than before? Estimates say they have tripled since first arriving. Have you noticed more activity outside your home?”

  Malorie doesn’t respond. But Tom really wants to. What this man is saying electrifies him. Why not exchange information? Why not learn? In the name of a better life, why not?

  “There’s some evidence of one having been caught,” the man says. “Certainly people have tried all over.”

  And now Tom knows why Malorie hasn’t spoken.

  By her measures, this man is unsafe. Just the suggestion of capturing one must have turned her to stone. If she wasn’t stone already.

  “I have lists,” the man says. “Patterns. A lot of information that can help you. And your stories, in turn, might help others. Please. Let’s talk?”

  Malorie doesn’t respond.

  But Tom does.

  “Do you have that information written down?”

  Malorie grips his wrist.

  “Yes, I do.” Relief in the man’s voice. “I have literature on me. Right here.”

  Malorie grips his wrist so tight he has to grab her hand to stop it.

  “Could you leave it on the front porch?”

  This is Olympia speaking. Tom could kiss her.

  But the man is silent for some time. Then, “That doesn’t seem like an even trade. I’d be leaving everything I know, without getting anything in return.”

 
Finally, Malorie speaks.

  “Add us to the list of people who turned you away.”

  Tom hears a sigh through the wood.

  “Are you absolutely sure?” the man asks. “It’s not often I encounter a group. As you can imagine, it’s not the most fruitful, nor the safest, endeavor. Are you sure you won’t have me in for an hour? Maybe two? Can I at least get your names?”

  “Leave us now.”

  “Okay,” he says. “You realize I’m just a man trying to do good out here, right? I’m literally trying to give us all a better understanding of where we’re at.” Then, after further silence from within, “Okay. I apologize if I’ve scared you. I see I have.”

  Tom’s ear is cocked to the door. He hears the man leaving the porch, shoes on the cabin stairs, breaks in the dry grass beyond, the wheelbarrow pushed once more. By the time Tom is at the door himself, his ear to the wood, he can hear the man’s steps diminishing, taking the dirt road out of camp.

  He turns to Malorie and Olympia. But before he can say anything, Malorie does.

  “I told you not to speak,” she says. “Next time, you don’t.”

  “He’s gone,” Olympia says.

  But Tom already knows what Malorie is going to say before she says it.

  “Not until we sweep the camp, he’s not.”

  “Mom,” Tom says. “He’s not Gary.”

  Malorie doesn’t hesitate with her response.

  “Not another word,” she says. “And wear your hood for fuck’s sake, Tom.”

  Tom remains by the front door as Malorie readies herself to step outside, to check every cabin in the camp. The man could be staying here, Malorie will say. He could be camping out in the woods, she will say. Who knows how long he’s been watching them, she will say. And the name Gary will come up again. As it always does in times of trouble.

  But Tom isn’t listening for what Malorie says or doesn’t say. His ear is on the soft rustle on the other side of the cabin’s front door. As what must be a welcome breeze shuffles the papers sitting out there on the porch.

  The literature the man left behind after all.

  TWO

  Olympia sits on her bed; she reads out loud. Whoever wrote the notes, the writing is messy. Olympia thinks that’s because many copies were made and who knows how deep into that chore the person was by the time they wrote this particular draft. The pile of pages is huge. Bigger than any book in the camp library. She tries to pace her reading, to slow down, but she recognizes in her own voice the excitement she’s read about in numerous characters in numerous books. Authors used words like breathless and eager to describe how she feels. In part, it’s the thrill of keeping a secret. Malorie doesn’t know the man left the literature. And she definitely doesn’t know Olympia reads it to her brother now.