Someone shouted an amen. Around Paxton people began to stand; the entire congregation was getting to its feet. Paxton rose with them, but he kept his head down and gripped the pew in front of him. People murmured and shouted. He’d never suspected that Rhonda could deliver a fire-and-brimstone sermon. But of course she’d been watching his father all those years.
At some signal he didn’t see, the argos in the front rows turned to face the congregation.
Pax recognized Amos, the one-armed man who worked in Deke’s shop, and a few others he’d either known before the Changes or had seen around town over the past few months. Most were strangers, gray-and white-skinned giants, some dressed in good suits, others in overalls and short-sleeved shirts and long cotton dresses.
And then they began to sing.
The first blast of sound rocked him back. The pew vibrated under his hands, traveled into his chest, buzzed the bones of his jaw.
He’d never heard so many argos sing at once, and never on their own; he’d only heard them in mixed choirs, taking the bass line in songs with the other clades. But this, this was something new, purely argo. New music that required previously unimagined vocal parts: Sub Bass, Deep Bass, Nether Bass, Double Mineshaft. He knew there must be more registers below his hearing, sub-foghorn frequencies that propagated miles through the Earth’s crust: Tectonic Bass.
The song went on for five minutes, ten, fifteen. The throb and thrum hammered him back into his body; he gripped the pew as waves of sound beat against his face and chest and thighs, chorus after chorus after chorus. He didn’t know what song the choir sang, but he sang with them, head back and mouth wide. He sang and he waited for the tears to come. He waited, teetering on the edge of that release, rocking in the embrace of that deep sound.
But no. He was dry. Dry as ancient skin, and the singing beat him like a hollow drum.
———
On the fourth day of the quarantine, soldiers brought him coupons.
Six masked national guardsmen knocked hard on his door at eight in the morning. Paxton came out in the T-shirt and shorts he’d been sleeping in. He couldn’t tell how old the men were, or if they were frightened to be knocking on doors that could be answered by testosterone-crazed sumo wrestlers or twelve-foot trolls or hairless women who didn’t need men to breed.
“Trick or treat,” Pax said. It was only ten days to Halloween.
If they were relieved that Paxton looked normal their masks hid it. A man at the front of the group held out his hand. “How do you do,” he said, his voice muffled. “I’m Colonel Duveen.”
Pax had heard of him. The Maximum Leader. Chief Jailer. “Are you sure you want to touch me?”
The man didn’t drop his arm. Finally Pax shook his hand. His gloved hand.
The other soldiers were spread out along the front lawn, and one of them faced the driveway. They held their rifles a little too at-the-ready for Paxton’s taste. He wondered if any of these men had been at the roadblock. If any of those rifles had fired at his friend.
“I’m personally visiting each resident,” the colonel said. “I want you to know that my door’s always open. The guard is here to help you all get through this.” He nodded at one of the soldiers and he—she?—handed Pax several small sheets of blue paper.
“You can use these at Bugler’s Grocery,” Colonel Duveen said.
“Use them for what?” Paxton asked. The unevenly cut slips looked like they’d been made on a photocopier.
“Food, home products, and medical supplies,” he said. “We’ll be ensuring regular delivery every few days.” The Bugler’s had been largely emptied in the first two days of the quarantine, instantly spawning a black market.
“For how long?” Pax asked. The government said that atypical plasmids had been discovered in the blood of changed people in Switchcreek, and supposedly in the veins of Babahoyo residents. He didn’t know what a typical plasmid was, much less an atypical one, and no one had been able to tell him how they would check for their absence.
“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.”