The roads are empty. Every home she passes has blankets or wood boards covering the windows. Storefronts are vacant. Strip mall parking lots are barren. She keeps her eyes immediately on the road ahead and drives, following the route highlighted on the map beside her. Her hands feel weak on the wheel. Her eyes ache from crying. She feels an unyielding flow of guilt for having left her sister, dead, on the bathroom floor of their house.
She did not bury her. She just left.
The hospitals didn’t answer their phones. Neither did the funeral homes. Malorie covered her, partially, with a blue and yellow scarf that Shannon loved.
The radio comes in and out. A man is talking about the possibility of war. If mankind bands together, he says, but then it’s all static. On the side of the road, she passes an abandoned car. The doors are open. A jacket hangs from the passenger seat touching the road. Malorie quickly looks ahead again. Then she closes her eyes. Then she opens them.
The radio is working. The man is still talking about war. Something moves to the right, and she sees it out of the corner of her eye. She does not look at it. She closes her right eye. Ahead, in the middle of the road, a bird lands and then takes off again. When Malorie reaches this spot, she sees the bird was interested in a dead dog. Malorie drives over it. The car bounces; she hits her head on the roof, her suitcase rattling in the backseat. She is shaking. The dog didn’t just look dead, it looked bent. She closes her eyes. She opens them.
A bird, maybe the same bird, caws from the sky. Malorie passes Roundtree Street. Ballam Street. Horton. She knows she is close. Something darts on her left. She closes her left eye. She passes an empty mail truck and its letters are strewn on the concrete. A bird flies too low, almost hitting the windshield. She screams, closes both eyes, and opens them. When she does, she sees the street sign she is looking for.
Shillingham.
She turns right, braking as she rounds the corner onto Shillingham Lane. She does not need to check her map for the number 273. It has been on her mind the entire drive.
Aside from a few cars parked in front of a house on the right, the street is empty. The neighborhood is ordinary, suburban. Most of the houses look the same. The lawns are overgrown. Every window is draped. In her eagerness, Malorie looks to the house where the cars are parked and knows it is the one she’s looking for.
She closes her eyes and slams on the brakes.
Stopped and breathing hard, the faint image of the house remains in her mind.
The garage is to the right. The garage door, beige, is closed. A brown shingled roof rests on white siding and bricks. The front door is a darker brown. The windows are covered. There’s an attic.
Steeling herself, eyes still closed, Malorie turns and grips the handle of the suitcase. The house is maybe fifty feet from where she stopped. She knows she is not close to the curb. She does not care. Attempting to calm herself, she breathes deeply, slowly. The suitcase is beside her in the passenger seat. Eyes closed, she listens. Hearing nothing outside the car, she opens the driver’s-side door and steps out, reaching for her things.
The baby kicks.
Malorie gasps, fumbling with her luggage. She almost opens her eyes to look down at her belly. Instead, she brings her hands there and rubs.
“We’re here,” she whispers.
She takes hold of the suitcase and, blindly, carefully, walks to the front lawn. Once she feels the grass beneath her shoes, she moves quicker, walking fast into a low bush. The needles prick her wrists and hip. She steps back, listening, and feels concrete beneath her shoes, stepping cautiously to where she thinks the front door is.
She is right. Clattering her suitcase on the porch, she feels along the brick, finding a doorbell. She rings it.
At first, there is no response. There is a sinking feeling that she has reached her end. Has she driven this far, braved this world, for nothing? She rings the bell again. Then again. Again. There is no response. She knocks, frantically beating the door.
Nobody calls to her.
Then . . . she hears muffled voices from within.
Oh my God! Someone’s here! Someone’s home!
“Hello?” she calls quietly. The sound of her own voice on the empty street scares her. “Hello! I read the ad in the paper!”
Silence. Malorie waits, listening. Then, someone calls to her.
“Who are you?” a man says. “Where are you from?”
Malorie feels relief, hope. She feels like crying.
“My name is Malorie! I’ve driven from Westcourt!”
There is a pause. Then, “Are your eyes closed?”
It’s a different man’s voice.
“Yes! My eyes are closed.”
“Have they been closed for a long time?”
Just let me in! she thinks. LET ME IN!
“No,” she answers. “Or yes. I’ve driven from Westcourt. I closed them as much as I could.”
She hears low voices. Some are angry. The people are debating whether or not to let her in.
“I haven’t seen anything!” she calls. “I swear. I’m safe. My eyes are closed. Please. I read the ad in the paper.”
“Keep them closed,” a man finally says. “We’re opening the door. When we do, come inside as quickly as you can. Okay?”