Malorie(18)

Malorie doesn’t know what to say. Here she hasn’t processed her own news yet.

She bends and takes up the papers.

“My God,” Ron says. “My God, my God, my God.”

Malorie doesn’t read the words in her lap. She only feels the presence of Ron’s emotions. The sadness, the futility, the fact that he’s just learned of his sister having survived at least the arrival of the creatures. Here, a paranoid hermit has gotten word of something worth venturing into the new world for.

Ron sits again. He’s smiling, but his expression scares her. As if his eyes are made of black cloth. As if he isn’t capable of seeing her at all.

His hand slides to the chair’s armrest. He lifts the blindfold and, smiling yet, secures it around his head.

Malorie doesn’t know what to say. She shouldn’t say anything at all. She should go.

“Thank you for letting me in, Ron,” she says. Then she asks it because she feels as though she must. “Would you take that train to see your sister again?”

“Hmm?” Like he doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Like she’s brought up a subject from some hours ago, a trifle in the course of more important matters. “Oh, that? I wouldn’t have to. She was listed as a survivor in Saugatuck. South of us.”

Malorie waits. But she can’t stop herself.

“Maybe…” she begins. “Maybe it’d be good for you…to…”

Ron’s hand darts out and blasts the volume on the ham radio. He moves fast and the sound is loud and Malorie’s already setting the rest of her drink on the floor and rising to leave.

Ron twists the dial. He’s speaking to her, Malorie can see his mouth move, but the radio inhales the words.

She wants to thank him. Wants to tell him he doesn’t have to go looking for his sister today. He could go tomorrow. He can do whatever he wants whenever he wants to. He’s earned that.

He doesn’t have to seek her out at all.

But…

But he should.

It strikes her then, a truth erupting from nothingness. Yes, Ron Handy should search for his sister. Otherwise he will die, as he is now, living in this squalor and confinement, no sense of purpose, no purpose at all.

Suddenly, with violent clarity, Malorie knows she’s going to search for her parents.

The physical rush following this decision steals her breath.

She secures her fold. A voice comes through the radio, a woman.

“They’re not necessarily taller than they were before…but wider. They take up more space…”

Ron kicks the radio.

“Oh, just go away!” he yells. But does he speak to the creatures…or Malorie? “Take the train,” he says then, turning the radio down. “Oh, please, Malorie, for both of us. Take the train.”

She doesn’t have to see his eyes to know that he’s crying.

“I’m going to,” she says. And her eyes don’t have to be open for her to cry, either. “Ron, I’m sorry I upset you. You didn’t do anything to deserve this today. I’m so sorry.”

“Take the train, Malorie.”

Then, as if it’s the only way for him to survive, as if it’s what’s kept him alive this long, Ron laughs.

“Now, shoo, you!” Levity again. “I’m expecting a murder of friends to arrive any minute and I have sprucing to do.”

“Thank you, Ron.”

She’s thinking of a blind train. And the distance between here and there. Thirty miles roll out before her like a fallen spool, thread unraveling from her once stable fingers, never to be wound perfect again.

Get to the train.

Take it.

To her parents.

“Malorie?” Ron asks. As if he isn’t sure she’s still here.

“Yes?”

“Take those filthy pages with you, if you don’t mind. I don’t want anybody thinking I read that sort of stuff. I’m a respected man, after all. A scholar. And it’s important for us thinkers to keep doing what we do best. Waiting for that inevitable death. At peace. And alone.”





SIX


Tom packs his one bag. But he wants to bring two. He wants to bring a lot. What better place to experiment with his inventions than in the real world? He considers hiding some from Malorie. And if he can’t fit them in, maybe he doesn’t need a change of pants, a change of shoes, or even food after all.

Malorie is up at the lodge, hurriedly gathering canned goods for what she told him and Olympia is going to be “a long trip.” Neither of the teens has traveled very far from Camp Yadin since they arrived ten years ago. Tom remembers the river well. The school for the blind. The long, winding journey that delivered them here. And here is home. Has been home. He knows every sound in this place, every creak, the wind through the trees, the wind across the lake. Malorie didn’t have to tell him she was going to the lodge; she could’ve just gone, and Tom would’ve heard it all play out, just as he has, just as he heard the lodge door open and close upon her entrance.

“Are you scared?” Olympia asks.

Tom looks to her across the cabin. Olympia’s bed is on the opposite side of the space, a distance they agreed upon two years ago.

“Of what?” he asks. But he can’t hide it. His voice trembles. And besides, Olympia seems to see things nobody else does.