Bird Box

fifteen

“I’m not drinking that water,” Malorie says.

The housemates are exhausted. They slept packed together on the living room floor, though nobody slept for very long.

“We can’t go days without water, Malorie,” Tom says. “Think about the baby.”

“That’s who I’m thinking about.”

In the kitchen, on the counter, the two buckets Felix filled are still untouched. One by one the housemates lick their dry lips. It has been twenty-four hours and the likelihood of its being much longer weighs on all their minds.

They are thirsty.

“Can we drink the river water?” Felix asks.

“Bacteria,” Don says.

“That depends,” Tom says. “On how cold the water is. How deep. How fast it flows.”

“And anyway,” Jules says, “if something got into the well, I’m sure it’s gotten into the river.”

Contamination, Malorie thinks. It’s the word of the hour.

In the cellar are three buckets of urine and feces. Nobody wants to take them outside. Nobody wants to go out there at all today. The smell is strong in the kitchen and hangs faintly in the living room.

“I would drink the river water,” Cheryl says. “I’d chance it.”

“You’d go out there?” Olympia asks. “There could be something standing right on the other side of the door!”

“I don’t know what I heard,” Felix says. He’s repeated this many times. He’s said he feels guilty for scaring everybody.

“It was probably a person,” Don says. “Probably somebody looking to rob us.”

“Do we have to figure this out right now?” Jules asks. “It’s been one day. We haven’t heard anything. Let’s wait. One more day. See if we feel better.”

“I’d even drink from the buckets,” Cheryl says. “It’s a well, for fuck’s sake. Animals fall into wells all the time. They die down there. We’ve probably been drinking dead animal water this whole time.”

“The water in this neighborhood has always been good,” Olympia says.

Malorie gets up. She walks to the kitchen’s entrance. The water glistens at the rim of the wood bucket, shines in the one of metal.

What would it do to us? she thinks.

“Can you imagine drinking a little part of one?” Tom asks.

Malorie turns. He is standing beside her. His shoulder rubs against hers in the doorway.

“I can’t do it, Tom.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to. But I can ask myself.”

When Malorie looks him in the eye she knows he is serious.

“Tom.”

Tom turns to face the others in the dining room.

“I’ll drink it,” he says.

“We don’t need a champion,” Don says.

“I’m not looking to be one, Don. I’m thirsty.”

The housemates are quiet. Malorie sees the same thing in their faces that she’s feeling herself. For as scared as she is, she wants someone to drink it.

“This is insane,” Felix says. “Come on, Tom. We can figure something else out.”

Tom steps into the dining room. At the table, he looks Felix in the eye.

“Lock me in the cellar. I’ll drink it down there.”

“You’ll go mad from the smell,” Cheryl says.

Tom smiles sadly.

“We have a well, right in our backyard,” he says. “If we can’t use it, we can’t use anything. Let me do this.”

“You know who you sound like?” Don asks.

Tom waits.

“You sound like George. Except he had a theory.”

Tom looks to the dining room table, set against the window.

“We’ve been here for months,” he says. “If something got in the well yesterday, it probably got in there before.”

“You’re rationalizing,” Malorie says.

Tom answers her without turning to face her.

“Is there any option? Sure, the river. But we could get sick. Real sick. We don’t have any medicine. All we’ve had so far is the water from the well. It’s the only medicine we’ve got. What else can we do? Walk to the next well? And then what? Hope nothing got into that one?”

Malorie watches as, one by one, the housemates acquiesce. The natural rebellion in Don’s face gives way to concern. The fear in Olympia’s eyes turns to guilt. As for herself, Malorie doesn’t want him to do it. For the first time since arriving at the house, Tom’s role, how integral he is to everything that happens here, is blinding.

But instead of stopping him, he inspires her. And she helps.

“Not the cellar,” she says. “What if you went mad down there and destroyed our food stock?”

Tom faces her.

“All right,” he says. “Then the attic.”

“A leap from that window is a lot higher than one from down here.”

Tom stares into Malorie’s eyes.

“I’ll make a compromise,” he says. “The second floor. You gotta lock me somewhere. And there’s no place down here.”

“You can use my room.”

“That room,” Don says, “is the very one George used to watch the video.”

Malorie looks back to Tom.

“I didn’t know that.”

“Let’s do it,” Tom says.

He pauses, just a moment, before passing Malorie and entering the kitchen. Malorie follows. The housemates file in behind them. When he pulls a glass from the cupboard, Malorie gently grabs his arm.

“Drink it through this,” she says. She hands him a coffee filter. “I don’t know. A filter. Who knows?”

Tom takes it. He looks her in the eye. Then he dunks the glass in the wooden well bucket.

When he pulls it out, he holds it up. The housemates stand in a semicircle around it. They stare at the contents of the glass.

The details of Felix’s story chill Malorie all over again.

Carrying the glass, Tom leaves the kitchen. Jules gathers some rope from the kitchen pantry and follows him.

The other housemates do not speak. Malorie places one hand on her belly and the other on the counter. Then she lifts it quickly, as if she’s just put her hand in a deadly substance.

Contamination.

But there was no water where she put her hand.

Upstairs, the door to her bedroom closes. She listens as Jules ties the rope around the doorknob and fastens it to the railing of the staircase.

Now Tom is locked in.

Like George.

Felix paces. Don leans against the wall, arms crossed, staring at the floor. When Jules returns, Victor goes to him.

A sound comes from upstairs. Malorie gasps. The housemates look to the ceiling.

They wait. They listen. Felix moves as if he’s going to go up there. Then he stops.

“He must have drunk it already,” Don says quietly.

Malorie steps to the entrance of the living room. There, ten feet away, is the foot of the stairs.

There is only silence.

Then there is a knock.

And Tom yells.

Tom yells Tom yells Tom yells Tom

Malorie is already moving to the stairs, but Jules passes her.

“Stay here!” he commands.

She watches him climb the stairs.

“Tom!”

“Jules, I’m okay.”

At the sound of Tom’s voice, Malorie exhales. She reaches for the railing to steady herself.

“Did you drink it?” Jules says through the door.

“I did. I drank it. I’m fine.”

The other housemates are gathered behind her now. They begin talking. Quietly at first. Then excitedly. Upstairs, Jules unties the rope. Tom emerges from the bedroom holding the empty glass before him.

“What was it like?” Olympia asks.

Malorie smiles. So do the others. It’s funny, in a dark way, right now, asking what drinking a glass of water was like.

“Well,” Tom says, descending, “it was probably the best glass of water I’ve ever had.”

When he reaches the bottom he looks Malorie in the eye.

“I liked the filter idea,” he says. When he passes her, he sets the glass on the end table with the telephone. Then he turns to the others. “Let’s put the furniture back in order. Let’s put this place back together again.”