Ben Marcus - The Flame Alphabet

Wisdom, he argued, was meant to be shared. Particularly wisdom that offers precise guidance on our crisis . A crisis like this, he said, requires assets. We must develop assets that will assist us in our change, and we can never ignore the source of a poison, the source of it , when we look to soothe its symptoms.

The source of it . He was talking about children.

Which had what to do with our religion? I wondered.

A closing thought on LeBov from our expert. I do not recall the man’s name or title, just that he wore a collar and a dark robe, and that his thoughts seemed to come so slowly that they caused him pain.

“LeBov’s idea that science cannot help us, but faith can—this is an idea that resonates deeply for me. Deeply.”

He attempted an important pause.

“But when the faith to which he is referring does not exist , I can only be profoundly troubled. It desecrates the real, authentic Jew to imagine a false and private one, and to accord that imaginary Jew with secret powers channeled against the interests of the world at large. It’s a desecration.”

The feature on LeBov ended and Jim Adelle seemed caught by surprise, swaying in his chair behind the big news table. He put his finger to his ear, listened to his producer, winced. Perhaps, instead of a verbal message, they’d sent a knifelike frequency into his head. In the end, I bet Jim Adelle would have preferred that to words.

He looked up but his focus couldn’t quite meet the camera. He seemed to be staring at something inside his own eyes. With a mechanical face he repeated the news. LeBov was dead.

I got up to continue my apology to Claire, if I could find her. It was going to take a little bit more work.

Then they showed LeBov’s picture again.

Except on the screen where there should have been a picture of a man I’ve never seen, whose voice I’d hardly heard on the radio, they showed a picture of Murphy. It was unmistakable. The same red hair, the same immortal skin. A recent photo of Murphy.

I crouched into the blue funnel of the television to get a good look.

So. This was LeBov.

Do not let him confuse or mislead you , Murphy had said. Or was it LeBov who said this to me?

Are you reading LeBov? That will catch you up on things .

If he was still alive, and I had a terrible feeling that he was, I was pretty sure I knew where I could find him.

News of the quarantine issued through the car radio on my way down to the Oliver’s. It would be temporary. The neighborhood would be restricted to children, protected, necessities provided. Details were given about the gate, the fence line, the use of dogs. It was time for everyone else to go.

A diversion would be created for the children. Something involving the school. Or was it the prison?

They were giving us a day, a day and a half, to pack our things and leave.

Some suggested destinations followed. Shelters, towns, mostly fanning to the south. Wheeling, Marion, Danville, the quad county district, Albert Farm. Towns with undeveloped space, meadowland. Counties with soil still soft enough for digging, where the salt was naturally repelled by the winter air systems. The list was not long.

The way I heard this was: Do not go to Wheeling, Marion, Danville . Avoid the quad counties and Albert Farm .

I pictured Claire under blankets in the backseat of the car as I drove all night, wondering where to stop. She was not ready to travel, especially with no destination, no promise of comfort or safety when we arrived.

Wherever we ended up, we would need to be separated from our volatile fellows. The toxicity had spread beyond children. Not everywhere, not fully, but that was the trend. Everyone would make everyone sick, with children the lone immuners. We should not, according to the report, even be together, unless we could refrain from speech, take a pact of silence.

We urge you to travel alone. Consider this an allergy to people .

I was as bad for Claire as Esther, or would be soon. Earlier today, when I found Claire after the report on LeBov and subjected her to my lengthy, defensive apology and watched her shrink into the bed while I spoke, it wasn’t only because she had grown sick of the sight of me. It was my language as well. It was that I had spoken at all.

If we traveled together we had better hold our goddamn tongues.

The radio report followed in robotic tones, with cautions, locations to avoid, roads that were closed. Rivers and bridges, the Sheldrake, Wickers Creek, the Menands Bridge. Something about the airspace of Elmira and a marine warning near the Mourner’s Sound. A different station was given for the full, updated list of closures, but I did not switch over. I could wait to hear the names of places I should not go.

At a stop sign I heard a sharp noise and something hit my car. A whimper floated up, perhaps from my own mouth. The streets were dark, boiling circles of light spreading from the streetlamps. A pack of children tore across a yard, fled from sight. I locked my doors. Then a soft thing fell into the car and the car lifted, as if someone were out there, trying to push the car over.

I stepped on the gas, revved it hard, but the car was blocked by something. It whinnied forward, the engine straining, and seemed to elevate in the back.

One of them pressed his little face into the driver’s side window, so close. He smiled, his lips moving, as if he were singing. With his finger he tapped on the glass, made a twirling motion for me to roll down the window. His hands formed a posture of prayer under his chin and I believe he mimed the word please .

He wanted to talk.

I hammered down on the gas again and the car whined, lifted, then released with a squeal over whatever had been blocking it and I sped away.

In my rearview mirror a few of them crouched over something, not even looking my way. They formed a circle, went to their knees, and that was all I saw.

It was just kids, out in the street after suppertime. That’s all it was. Kids playing in the road.

In the Oliver’s parking lot I sat in the car to listen to the rest of the broadcast.

The emergency report was delivered in clipped tones, the voice of a woman who seemed unable to hear herself, as if she were reading a foreign language phonetically.

An escalation in the toxicity had been observed in places like Harrisburg, Fremont, with more reports coming in. Something had happened in Wisconsin. Wisconsin had experienced an incident. There was, according to reports, a complete absence of speech originating from Wisconsin. This was no longer a poison from children. In Wisconsin all language, no matter the source, was toxic. The children alone were immune.

The Wisconsin area has unfortunately been a reliable precursor. We believe that what happens there will soon, we do not know when, happen here.

Health officials counsel seclusion, even from loved ones.

We unfortunately have to expect this escalation to spread. Even if you now find that exposure to speech sources other than children—including this broadcast—does not cause a disturbance, we cannot advise you that this will be the case for very much longer.

This station, as of tonight, will be suspending reports. We are working on a method to stay in touch. We will find a way to reach you. Please do stand by.

In good conscience we cannot continue. We wish you safety in your homes tonight.

The station faded to static. I spun through the pre-sets and found nothing else, just sharper or lower-toned hissing, from one end of the dial to the next.

The parking lot of the Oliver’s was crowded with vans. From one of them came a fat tunnel of hosing. Little wisps of smoke spilled from its papery surface as the hosing curled away from the van, dropping down a fenced-in manhole.