Bird box

But Victor pulled again.

There could be people down there, Malorie thought. Hiding. Living down there. People who could help you raise the babies.

“Hello!” she called. But there was no response.

Sweat dripped from under the blindfold. Victor’s nails dug at the wood. Malorie’s body felt like it might snap in half as she knelt and pulled the thing open.

The smell that came up choked her and Malorie felt the rum come back up as she vomited where she stood.

“Victor,” she said, heaving. “Something’s rotting down there. Something—”

Then she felt the true scorching sensation of fear. Not the kind that comes to a woman as she drives with a blackened windshield, but the sort of fear that hits her when she’s wearing a blindfold and suddenly knows there is someone else in the room.

She reached for the door, scared she might tumble into the cellar and meet with whatever was at the bottom. The stench was not old food. It was not bad booze.

“Victor!”

The dog was yanking her, hungry for the source of that smell.

“Victor! Come on!”

But he continued.

This is what a grave smells like. This is death.

Quickly, in agony, Malorie pulled Victor out of the room and back into the bar, then searched for a post. She found one made of wood. She tied his leash to it, knelt, and held his face in her hands, begging him to calm down.

“We need to get back to the babies,” she told him. “You’ve got to calm down.”

But Malorie needed calming herself.

We never determined how animals are affected. We never found out.

She turned back blindly toward the hall that led to the cellar.

“Victor,” she said, tears welling. “What did you see down there?”

The dog was still. He was breathing hard. Too hard.

“Victor?”

She rose and stepped away from him.

“Victor. I’m just stepping over here. I’m going to look for some microphones.”

A part of her started dying. It felt like she was the one going mad. She thought of Jules. Jules who loved this dog more than he loved himself.

This dog was her very last link to the housemates.

A torturous growl escaped him. It was a sound she’d never heard from him. Not from any dog on Earth.

“Victor. I’m sorry we came here. I’m so sorry.”

The dog moved violently and Malorie thought he’d broken free. The wood post splintered.

Victor barked.

Malorie, backing up, felt something, a riser of some kind, behind her tired knees.

“Victor, no. Please. I’m so sorry.”

The dog swung his body, knocking into a table.

“Oh God! VICTOR! Stop growling! Stop! Please!”

But Victor couldn’t stop.

Malorie felt along the carpeted riser behind her. She crawled onto it, afraid to turn her back on what Victor had seen. Huddled and shaking, she listened to the dog go mad. The sound of him pissing. The sound of his teeth snapping as he bit the empty air.

Malorie shrieked. She instinctively reached for a tool, a weapon, and found her hands gripping the steel of some kind of small post

Slowly, she rose, feeling along the length of the steel.

Victor bit the air. He snapped again. It sounded like his teeth were cracking.

At the top of the steel rod, Malorie’s fingers encircled a short, oblong object. At its end, she felt something like steel netting.

She gasped.

She was on the stage. And she was holding what she had come for. She was holding a microphone.

She heard Victor’s bone pop. His fur and flesh had ripped.

“Victor!”

She pocketed the microphone and dropped to her knees.

Kill him, she thought.

But she couldn’t.

Manically, she searched the stage. Behind her, it sounded like Victor had chewed through his own leg.

Your body is broken. Victor is dying. But there are two babies in boxes at home. They need you, Malorie. They need you they need you they need you.

Tears saturated and then spilled out through her blindfold. Her breath came in gasping heaves. On her knees, she followed a wire to a small square object at the far end of the stage. She discovered three more cords, leading to three more microphones.

Victor made a sound no dog should make. He sounded almost human in his despair. Malorie gathered everything she could.

The amplifiers, small enough to carry. The microphones. The cords. A stand.

“I’m sorry, Victor. I’m so sorry, Victor. I’m sorry.”

When she rose, she thought her body couldn’t take it. She believed that if she had one ounce less of strength, she’d fall down forever. Yet, she stood. As Victor continued to struggle, Malorie felt her way with her back against the wall. At last, she stepped down from the stage.

Victor saw something. Where was it now?