The Devil's Alphabet by Daryl Gregory Read Free Book Online Page B

bowls. After inspecting a few of the containers and finding their contents far gone, he began to toss everything. His father’s snoring drowned out the sound of the TV.
    He could have come back here and started cleaning last night after supper at Deke’s. Instead he’d driven up to the Lambert Motel 6. Deke and Donna had tried to get him to stay with them, but the vintage was still in his system and the oversized bed in the giant house was a little too Alice in Wonderland. He felt like he was overdosing on strangeness.
    That night he sat on the polyester bedspread in his underwear, eating CiCi’s pizza and flipping through channels. For dessert he smoked a joint while he watched a
South Park
rerun. Around ten he called in to work and told the night manager he couldn’t make it back to the restaurant by Monday. The manager started to be a dick about it, as usual, but quickly backed off when Pax told him his father was sick. Pax must have sounded genuinely upset.
    He said he didn’t know how long it would take to get someone to take care of his father. Which was true, as far as it went.
    Nobody at work knew he was from Switchcreek. None of his friends either. They knew he was from down south, but sofar he’d never felt the need to open up a conversation—or shut one down—with
Hey, you know that biological catastrophe thirteen years ago? That was my hometown!
    It helped that nobody he knew in Chicago talked about the Changes, or had even seen a Switchcreeker in person. All the years Pax lived in Chicago the only Changed he’d seen was an argo boy on a talk show. He’d heard there was a beta in L.A. who ran some kind of fetish website, but he’d never looked it up. His people stayed home, or they became professional freaks. Only the unchanged, like Pax, had the option of passing in the outside world. Pax could slip back to his life in the city any time he wanted to. Any time.
    He heard a faint thump from outside—the chub’s car door shutting? He hurried into the living room, and stopped short before reaching the door.
    His father’s body had swelled. His stomach had pushed open the robe, and his face and neck had ballooned. His snoring had stopped, but his eyes were still closed and his breathing was coming heavy.
    “Dad?” He went to his side, touched his shoulder. “Dad!”
    His father’s eyes slowly opened. His pupils were dilated. “Lorraine. Lorraine was here.”
    “Mom’s not here, Dad. You were dreaming.”
    His eyes seemed to focus on Pax’s face, then his head fell back in surprise. “Paxton? Is that really you?” He smiled. “The prodigal returns.”
    Shit
, Pax thought.
    “You mother was just here,” he said. “Or maybe that was yesterday.”
    The blisters had erupted again. They were everywhere onhis skin, all sizes, weeping and shiny. His father reached for him and Paxton stepped back. He remembered that electric rush of emotion that had struck him, left him lying stupid in the grass.
    He heard voices and went to the door. Through the diamond-shaped window he saw another car in the driveway—one of those new Cadillacs with a snout like a bulldog—and Aunt Rhonda waddling toward the house in her blazing pink pantsuit. Close behind came three chub boys: Clete, who was carrying a Styrofoam cooler; the one with the diamond earring and a head like a bowling ball who seemed to be Aunt Rhonda’s personal bodyguard; and another muscled boy he didn’t recognize who swung a duffel bag in his hand.
    Paxton locked the door and stepped to the side, out of the view of the window. Even though he was expecting it, the knock made him flinch.
    “Reverend Martin?” Rhonda called. “Paxton?”
    He backed away from the door—he didn’t want his voice to sound too close—and called back, “This isn’t a good time, Aunt Rhonda.”
    “Don’t let her in!” his father bellowed.
    One of the men laughed, but was quickly cut off. Rhonda said, “Paxton, honey, I’m here to help. Boys, go back to the