Daryl Gregory: The Devil's Alphabet

Pax leaned away from the windshield. What he most wanted was to put the car in reverse, then head back through the trees to the highway. Back to Chicago. But he could feel Deke looking at him.

He stepped out of the car, and hot, moist air enveloped him. He reached back inside and pulled out his suit jacket-frayed at the cuffs, ten years out of style-but didn’t put it on. If he was lucky he wouldn’t have to wear it at all.

“Into the valley of death,” he said to himself. He folded the jacket over his arm and walked down the hill to the cemetery’s rusting fence.

The back gate squealed open at his push. He walked through the thick grass between the headstones. When he was a kid he’d used this place like a playground. They all had-Deke, Jo, the other church kids-playing hide and seek, sardines, and of course ghost in the graveyard. There weren’t so many headstones then.

Deke squatted next to the grave, his knees higher than his head like an enormous grasshopper. He’d unhooked one of the chains that had connected the casket to the frame and was rolling it up around his hand. “Thought that was you,” he said without looking up from his work. His voice rumbled like a diesel engine.

“How you doing, Deke.”

The man stood up. Pax felt a spark of fear-the back-brain yip of a small mammal confronted with a much larger predator. Argos were skinny, but their bony bodies suggested scythes, siege engines. And Deke seemed to be at least a foot taller than the last time Pax had seen him. His curved spine made his head sit lower than his shoulders, but if he could stand up straight he’d be twice Paxton’s height.

“You’ve grown,” Pax said. If they’d been anywhere near the same size they might have hugged-normal men did that all the time, didn’t they? Then Deke held out a hand the size of a skillet, and Pax took it as best he good. Deke could have crushed him, but he kept his grip light. His palm felt rough and unyielding, like the face of a cinderblock. “Long time, P.K.,” he said.

P.K. Preacher’s Kid. Nobody had called him that since he was fifteen. Since the day he left Switchcreek.

Pax dropped his arm. He could still feel the heat of Deke’s skin on his palm.

“I didn’t get your message until last night,” Pax lied. “I drove all night to get here. I must look like hell.”

Deke tilted his head, not disagreeing with him. “The important thing’s you got here. I told the reverend I’d take care of the casket, but if you want to go inside, they’re setting out the food.”

“No, that’s-I’m not hungry.” Another lie. But he hadn’t come here for a hometown reunion. He needed to pay his respects and that was it. He was due back at the restaurant by Monday.

He looked at the casket, then at the glossy, polished gravestone. Someone had paid for a nice one.

JO LYNN WHITEHALL

BORN FEBRUARY 12, 1983

DIED AUGUST 17, 2010

LOVING MOTHER

“‘Loving Mother.’ That’s nice,” Pax said. But the epitaph struck him as entirely inadequate. After awhile he said, “It seems weird to boil everything down to two words like that.”

“Especially for Jo,” Deke said. A steel frame supported the casket on thick straps. Deke squatted again to turn a stainless steel handle next to the screw pipe. The casket began to lower into the hole. “It’s the highest compliment the betas have, though. Pretty much the only one that counts.”

The casket touched bottom. Paxton knelt and pulled up the straps on his side of the grave. Then the two of them lifted the metal frame out of the way.

Paxton brushed the red clay from his knees. They stood there looking into the hole.

The late Jo Lynn Whitehall, Paxton thought.

He tried to imagine her body inside the casket, but it was impossible. He couldn’t picture either of the Jos he’d known-not the brown-haired girl from before the Changes, or the sleek creature she’d become after. He waited for tears, the physical rush of some emotion that would prove that he loved her. Nothing came. He felt like he was both here and not here, a double image hovering a few inches out of true.

Paxton breathed in, then blew out a long breath. “Do you know why she did it?” He couldn’t say the word “suicide.”

Deke shook his head. They were silent for a time and then Deke said, “Come on inside.”

Deke didn’t try to persuade him; he simply went in and Pax followed, down the narrow stairs-the dank, cinderblock walls smelling exactly as Pax remembered-and into the basement and the big open room they called the Fellowship Hall. The room was filled with rows of tables covered in white plastic tablecloths. There were at least twice as many people as he’d seen outside at the burial. About a dozen of them were “normal”-unchanged, skipped, passed over, whatever you wanted to call people like him-and none of them looked like reporters.

Deke went straight to the buffet, three tables laid end-to-end and crowded with food. No one seemed to notice that Pax had snuck in behind the tall man.

The spread was as impressive as the potlucks he remembered as a boy. Casseroles, sloppy joes, three types of fried chicken, huge bowls of mashed potatoes… One table held nothing but desserts. Enough food to feed three other congregations.

While they filled their plates Pax surreptitiously looked over the room, scanning for the twins through a crowd of alien faces. After so long away it was a shock to see so many of the changed in one room. TDS-Transcription Divergence Syndrome-had swept through Switchcreek the summer he was fourteen. The disease had divided the population, then divided it again and again, like a dealer cutting a deck of cards into smaller piles. By the end of the summer a quarter of the town was dead. The survivors were divided by symptoms into clades: the giant argos, the seal-skinned betas, the fat charlies. A few, a very few, weren’t changed at all-at least in any way you could detect.

A toddler in a Sunday dress bumped into his legs and careened away, laughing in a high, piping voice. Two other bald girls-all beta children were girls, all were bald-chased after her into a forest of legs.

Most of the people in the room were betas. The women and the handful of men were hairless, skin the color of cabernet, raspberry, rose. The women wore dresses, and now that he was closer he could see that even more were pregnant than he’d supposed. The expectant mothers tended to be the younger, smaller women. They were also the ones who seemed to be wearing the head scarves.

He was surprised by how different the second-generation daughters were from their mothers. The mothers, though skinny and bald and oddly colored, could pass for normal women with some medical condition-as chemo patients, maybe. But their children’s faces were flat, the noses reduced to a nub and two apostrophes, their mouths a long slit.

Someone grabbed his arm. “Paxton Martin!”

He put on an expectant smile before he turned.

“It is you,” the woman said. She reached up and pulled him down into a hug. She was about five feet tall and extremely wide, carrying about three hundred pounds under a surprisingly well-tailored pink pantsuit.

She drew back and gazed at him approvingly, her over-inflated face taut and shiny. Lime green eyeshade and bright red rouge added to the beach ball effect.

“Aunt Rhonda,” he said, smiling. She wasn’t his aunt, but everyone in town called her that. He was surprised at how happy he was to see her.

“Just look at you,” she said. “You’re as handsome as I remember.”

Pax felt the heat in his cheeks. He wasn’t handsome, not in the ways recognized by the outside world. But in Switchcreek he was a skip, one of the few children who had come through the Changes unmarked and still breathing.