Daryl Gregory - The Devil's Alphabet

“As long as it takes, son.”

“You realize nobody believes you, right?” Pax said.

“Pardon?”

“This is bullshit. This ‘epidemiological hot zone’ business-there’s nothing contagious, and you know it.”

Colonel Duveen didn’t move, but the soldiers behind him shifted their feet, adjusted the angle of their rifles. The tension escalated by several degrees.

“You’re being used,” Paxton said. He wanted to poke the man in his chest, dare him to fire. “How’s it feel to be occupying the town of your fellow Americans? Like it better than Baghdad?”

“If you have any questions about the supply program,” the colonel said smoothly, “just call the number on each slip of paper.” Then: “Have a good day.”

The squad backed away and climbed into a Humvee. The colonel climbed into the front passenger seat. As the vehicle pulled away, one of the soldiers near a side window took off his mask and wiped his forehead with his arm.

Hot zone my ass, Paxton thought.

At least the government hadn’t cut the cable or phone lines-yet. Most people in town were convinced a blackout was coming any day now. First the landlines, then the satellite and cell phone signals. The prevailing opinion was that once the town was completely isolated, the National Guard would quietly ship them off in small groups to a secret prison.

In the meantime, Paxton had no need to call anyone or leave town. He planned to work on the house, finish cleaning up the yard, visit his father.

And oh yeah, cut down on the vintage.

When he arrived at the Home he found that his father hadn’t left the bed since yesterday afternoon. He’d pissed himself hours before, and still needed to go. Pax worked the controls of the bed and helped him to his feet. Once he was upright Harlan could shuffle to the bathroom.

Pax was angry, but there was no one to complain to. Rhonda wasn’t in the building, and most of the staff hadn’t shown up for work. The two chub men who were on duty said that they hadn’t been working the night before.

Pax helped his father shower-soaking Pax’s shirtsleeves in the process-and then supported him as he dropped into the huge wheelchair. Pax put on one of Harlan’s huge T-shirts, then pushed him into the atrium and parked him in front of the big windows where the sunlight poured in.

Pax draped his damp shirt across the back of the chair next to him and sat, exhausted. Together they waited for the vintage to flow in like the tide.

There were no newspapers to distract them-Mr. DuChamp hadn’t received any new issues since the start of the quarantine-so they sat before the windows and looked across the foothills to Mount Clyburn. During the first quarantine, the hill the Home sat on would have been beyond the southern checkpoint, but Rhonda had somehow negotiated a new border with the National Guard. She made sure everyone knew that she held daily meetings with Colonel Duveen and had won concessions. She said she’d gotten the curfew moved from dusk to 9:00 p.m. She’d probably take credit for the coupons unless they turned out to be unpopular.

“The leaves are turning,” his father said. Pax nodded. Red and gold dotted the mountain and the tops of the highest hills, each tree a pixel.

After awhile Pax said, “Did I ever tell you about Hillbilly Bobsled?”

Harlan looked at him quizzically.

“It was something Deke thought of,” Pax said. “In the fall, when the gullies were full of leaves, Deke and Jo and me would cut up cardboard boxes and make sleds. After awhile the leaves would get packed down and you could really fly.”

“Like to scare me to death.”

“You saw us? You never stopped us.”

“Paxton, you may think my sole job as your father was to stamp out every joy in your life-”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Pax started to reply, then stopped himself. He wasn’t here to fight. He took a breath, exhaled.

His right hand was trembling again. He moved his hands to his lap, left hand over the right. The tremor had shown up a couple days ago, coming and going at random. He felt as if he were losing ownership of his body. Nerves fired without permission, muscles twitched in response-a thousand conversations he wasn’t privy to.

“So you went to the funeral,” his father said. “A lot of people?”

“The whole town showed up,” Pax said. “So many people didn’t get in that they’re going to have an additional viewing tonight. The burial’s tomorrow morning. It was a good service, though. You would have liked it. A lot of people stood up to speak.”

“Did Elsa Hooke do a good job? What did she preach on?”

“She didn’t really preach.” His father frowned. He couldn’t understand why pastors would pass up the chance to bring the salvation message, especially at the golden opportunity of a funeral, where the unsaved were both in church and in a mood to contemplate the disposition of their souls. “Too many people wanted to speak,” Pax explained. “It was really Rhonda that delivered the sermon. People got pretty worked up. Afterward, folks were talking about a protest.”

“What kind of protest?” Harlan asked.

“I don’t think they know yet. Something after the burial.”

“Rhonda’s going to get more people shot,” he said.

“If we don’t stay visible, Dad, they’ll make us disappear.”

Harlan peered at him. “Who came up with that one?”

Pax looked away, annoyed. Was it so impossible that he could have thought of that on his own? After a moment he said, “It was on Rhonda’s blog.”

“Her what?”

“Her videos? She posts one every day.” With the cable and phone lines intact, Rhonda had been able to hold regular press conferences via phone, and she’d expanded her Helping Hands website to include a daily video message from Switchcreek. Harlan didn’t say anything. “Her website, Dad. Have you ever gone on the web?”

“Yes, I’ve gone on the web,” he said disdainfully.

Pax doubted if he had. “We should order high-speed Internet for the house-we already have cable.”

“We don’t need the Internet.”

“And fix up the living room. I’ve already started pulling up the carpets.”

“What?”

“Dad, they’re thirty years old and they stink. The floors are hardwood, so since we can’t get new carpets until after the quarantine I thought I’d refinish them.”

“Paxton…,” Harlan said quietly.

“I’ve never done it before, but I can ask people. I bet some of the argos at Alpha Furniture would know how.”

“Paxton, she’s not going to let me go home, no matter how clean or fixed up the house is.”

Pax glanced around. Rhonda’s office door was closed-he knew she wasn’t at the Home, but he still had to check-and no one else was in the atrium. “I’m going to force her,” he said.

Harlan pursed his lips, somehow expressing both pity and frank disbelief.

“Deke knew it,” Pax said, his voice low. “Jo knew it. She had proof Rhonda was ripping off the town. I’ll find it, and then I can-”

“Stop it, Paxton.”

“Are you telling me you don’t want out of here? Look what happened this morning, Dad. They’re not taking care of you. Things are falling apart.”

“That’s the first time that’s happened. I’ll get by.”

“You hate it here. I’ve felt what it’s like-” He almost said, Felt what it’s like to be you . “I know you’re dying to get out of here. I’ve been dreaming about it.”

“Your dreams told you this,” he said skeptically.

“You know what I mean,” Pax said. “Not dreams, exactly.” Some nights when he took the vintage, distances collapsed, the lines between self and not-self disappeared. He’d lie in the dark not knowing which bed, which body he inhabited. His father’s despair became his own.