Daryl Gregory - The Devil's Alphabet

The charlies in the lobby all stood when she walked out of her office. Twelve well-built men, the strongest in the clade, from boys not much older than sixteen to a couple of elders who were only a step or two from becoming Home residents themselves. She employed them all, but most didn’t work at the Home; they were distributors and messengers, her hands, the means by which she touched every member of the clade.

Clete said, “Hey, Aunt Rhonda.”

“Y’all here a bit early this morning,” she said.

“You always say, on time is late, early is on time,” Clete said, smiling.

“Too bad you only remember that on payday,” Rhonda said. “Y’all sit down and wait your turn.”

Rhonda plucked a paper surgical mask from the dispenser on the wall and walked toward the men’s wing. She could faintly hear Harlan’s caterwauling, and as she pushed through the second set of doors he let loose with a particularly full-throated shout.

“Goodness gracious,” she said to herself. She had no use for crying and tears, not anymore. She’d buried her husband when she was forty-six, and oh, she’d bawled for weeks. But then came the Changes, and by the time her body finished blowing up like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day balloon all those tears dried up.

(Almost all. Ten years ago she’d walked into Willie Flint’s cabin and the sight of the man had hit her like a punch to the stomach. She’d burst into tears, but only for a moment-the final spurt before that faucet sealed shut for good.)

The charlie men-the old ones, anyway-were just the opposite. Tough old coots, who before the Changes wouldn’t have yelped if they’d grabbed the wrong end of a chainsaw, suddenly got as touchy as babies. You couldn’t even frown without them taking offense. And when the vintage was flowing they just went out of their heads, laughing, crying, seeing things-and trying to hump anything that moved.

As she reached Harlan’s door she heard the reverend shouting something about “bread and stone.” More preaching, then. He’d been at it nearly nonstop.

Old chub men went crazy when the vintage hit them hard, but Harlan had it worse than she’d ever seen. He was crying out and talking to people when they’d picked him up at the church last night-it had taken Everett and Travis and Clete to pull the old man out of the water and get him into the van-and he’d kept making noise all night and into the morning. Rhonda kept her distance from him and let the boys handle him, of course. Harlan was throwing off vintage like a water sprinkler, and while the boys had a natural tolerance, Charlie women had to be careful. A couple years ago she’d embarrassed herself terribly when she caught a splash off of Mr. Lukens. Everett had stopped her before she climbed on top of the man, thank the Lord, but she’d already started rubbing against the old chub’s legs and-well, she wouldn’t let that happen again.

Rhonda pushed open the door, and the smell of the stale vintage hit her through the mask. She didn’t step any closer.

Travis put down some electronic gadget he’d been thumbing and popped to his feet.

“It don’t sound like he’s having any trouble breathing,” Aunt Rhonda said.

“He was gasping,” the boy said. “Now he’s doing the preaching thing again.”

Harlan lay on the queen-sized hospital bed, straining against the wide black Velcro bands they’d put across his chest, waist, and legs. He was sweating and red faced, his eyes wide and roaming the room. “Every good tree,” he said. “Every good tree brings forth good fruit. And every corrupt tree…”

“I told you, you have to talk to him. Have you been talking to him?”

“I tried,” the boy said. “It just seems to make him madder. He sure don’t like those straps.”

The boy looked like he could handle Harlan if the old man broke free-Travis was built like a clenched fist, all muscle and bone. He’d been a preschooler during the Changes, and at seventeen he was already broader and more muscular than Everett. That’s how it went with the charlie boys; the younger they were when they caught TDS, the bigger those muscles. The second-generation charlies-the natural-born boys who were under twelve and looked like butterballs now-would probably be five-foot Schwarzeneggers by puberty.

And when they got old as Harlan? Maybe they’d go fat again and start producing. Or maybe they’d turn into something different altogether. Nobody knew what the course of life would be for a natural-born charlie. They were in uncharted territory.

Rhonda put her hands on her hips. “Is he making any more sense? Does he know where he is?”

“I don’t think so,” Travis said. “It’s all Bible stuff, mostly. Sometimes he calls me Paxton.” He laughed. “Or Lorraine. Which I guess is his wife?”

“She died in the Changes,” Rhonda said, and her tone snapped the smile off the boy’s face. “As for Paxton, well…” The last time she’d seen him, he was pale, wet, and unconscious, and Deke was carrying him off to Dr. Fraelich’s clinic.

Rhonda risked coming another foot into the room. “Harlan!” she said sternly. “Pastor Martin!”

Harlan gave no indication that he heard her. “Is not the life more than meat?” he said. “Is the body more than raiment?” His voice was scratchy, but still strong. These backwoods preachers didn’t tire easily; she’d seen Harlan do week-long revivals, bringing the fire and brimstone two hours a night.

“Time for you to wake up now, Pastor. You can’t be carrying on like this all day.” He kept babbling, his eyes focused on nothing. Rhonda stepped back and said to Travis, “Are you sure he’s not producing?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What do you mean, you don’t think so?”

“I mean, no ma’am. I check him every hour, but I haven’t found any new blisters, and there’s nothing coming through the cream.” After they’d gotten him into the Home last night the boys had plastered his blisters with antibiotic cream-standard procedure. “I guess he’s still drunk on the dose from last night.”

“I suppose,” Rhonda said. Harlan had produced more vintage in a burst than any charlie she’d ever seen. A regular Texas gusher. It made sense that he’d need time to recover and recharge. She had to admit she wanted him back online and producing steadily.

“Just keep talking to him,” Rhonda said. “I want someone here when he comes to. He ain’t going to be happy.”

“Uh, when’s that going to be, you think?”

Rhonda let her voice go sweet. “You getting tired sitting here, honey? You need to go home for a while, maybe stretch out on the couch?”

The boy brightened. “That’d be great, Aunt Rhonda. I could sure-”

“Sit down, Travis.” God Almighty the boy was dim.

She went to the door and the boy said, “Uh, ma’am? It’s payday, right? I was wondering…”

She turned to face him, raised an eyebrow.

The boy said. “I was just wondering about the bonus…”

“Not until you’re eighteen,” Rhonda said. “Until then, no bonus. You just sit here and call me when he starts producing. Oh, and hon? If I see that game thing in your hand again while you’re on the clock, I’ll have Everett break it over your big chub head.”

She threw the mask in the garbage and stalked back to the lobby. More of her employees had arrived. They were all looking at her, eyes like hungry orphans. “All right,” she said. “Line up.”

They queued up outside her office. She sat at her desk, signing and tearing out the checks one by one. Everett stood beside her, handing out the bonus, the small black plastic baggies from the cooler.

Clete tucked his check into his back pocket without looking at it, but he opened his bag right there and took out the little plastic vial. The frozen vintage occupied only the bottom two centimeters of the container. “Is that it?” he said.