Aunt Rhonda took Paxton’s hand. “You make sure you keep eating,” she said. “You’re still scrawny as a barn cat.”
Pax climbed into the backseat, and the soldier wheeled the car around. In a block they turned left onto the highway. They crossed the bridge, and then they were over the creek and outside of town. Piney Road went by on their left; then they passed the gravel cutoff that led to the hill behind the graveyard. In only a few minutes they were approaching the north gate, slowing as they passed two towering alabaster crosses that had been planted beside the highway.
Pax had missed the march-he’d sat in the clearing on Mount Clyburn for hours that morning-and in the weeks since he hadn’t driven any farther north than Piney Road.
Pax realized the driver was saying something.
“We need your medical papers now.” Another masked soldier was waiting outside the car. “And your driver’s license.”
“Right, right.” He rolled down his window and handed the papers and the license to the man-woman?-behind the face mask. “Just a second,” Pax said. He got out of the car, started walking back up the road toward the crosses. The driver yelled something at his back.
The crosses were tall as argos, twelve feet high, and white as their skin. They leaned slightly in to each other, their arms almost touching.
He reached out to one of them, pressed his fingers against the rough wood.
The soldier grabbed Paxton’s arm-Pax hadn’t realized he was holding on to the post. “Dude, what’s the matter with you?” the man said.
“Jesus,” another one said. “He’s bawling like a baby.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Pax said. He wasn’t sure who he was talking to. His legs had gone weak. He gripped the wooden post in a fierce hug.
“Are you sure you should be traveling?” the driver asked him.
“No. Yeah. I mean, I’m fine.” He made his arms release the cross, then wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. “I don’t know where that came from,” he said.
“Get back in the car, sir,” one of the soldiers said.
They guided him to the backseat, slammed the door. “I’m not usually like this,” Pax said.
“Just don’t do that again, okay?” the driver said. The striped crossbars were raised, and the driver hit the gas. Pax fell back against the seat, and the car carried him north.
He’d lived through twelve Chicago winters, but he’d never experienced anything like South Dakota in February. The road crossed an endless blank plain. Thuggish winds kept nudging his rental car onto the shoulder, and even with the heat on full blast, tendrils of intense cold swirled around his feet, licked at him from every seam of the car’s interior. He drove hunched over the wheel, squinting through the crusted windshield, muscles tensed. The road revealed itself a few yards at a time through curtains of blowing snow.
He didn’t believe the GPS when it told him he’d arrived. He saw no house, no farm, only white on white in every direction. He was a southern boy at heart, and couldn’t shake the conviction that if he left the car he’d be carried away across the fields. Next June the final drift would melt to reveal his perfectly preserved corpse.
He zipped his ski jacket up to his chin and pulled on his gloves. The car door squealed as he forced it open, then cold slapped him across the face and he gasped. He walked to the front of the car and turned in place, eyes wide for lights and shapes against the twilight. Nothing.
He started to get back in the car, then had another thought. After all, it was a rental. He climbed up on the hood of the car on all fours, and then carefully stood. The sheet metal plonked beneath his boots.
A hundred yards off to his right he saw a stand of trees, the roofline of a house, and the suggestion of an off-white stripe running from the trees to intersect the road. He hopped back in the car.
The stripe turned out to be a driveway, or at least a path through the snow. He rolled past the ring of trees that guarded the house and then braked to a stop. The house was a long, one-story ranch with a marshmallow cap of snow. A low garage or workshop squatted off to the side.
Standing in front of the house was a bulky figure holding a shotgun across his or her chest.
He stepped out of the car. “Hello?” he called. “I’m looking for the DuChamp house.” He walked closer, his hands away from his body-not stick-’ em-up high, but enough to show respect for the gun. “My name is Paxton Martin.”
The figure came closer. It was an unchanged woman, as far as he could tell, heavily bundled against the cold. “I’m Elly,” she said. He’d talked to her on the phone. She was Mr. DuChamp’s sister, and she’d moved out of Switchcreek years before the Changes. “Come on in, Paxton.”
He jogged back to the car, switched it off, and picked up the nylon duffel from the back seat. A minute later she led him into the house to a mudroom stacked with coats. She held the shotgun and showed him where to hang his jacket and set his hiking boots. “They’re in the family room,” she said, and nodded toward a doorway.
He went down a short hallway and entered a large, open room. Couches and armchairs faced a huge stone fireplace.
Three faces gazed at him. If he’d never lived in Switchcreek, they might have looked identical.
Rainy jumped from her chair, took a few steps, and stopped. Sandra didn’t get up from her place on the couch, but Tommy rose to his feet and stood next to Rainy.
“Merry Christmas,” Pax said.
They stared at him. Then Rainy said, “Paxton, it’s January.”
He looked down at the duffel. “Well, I guess I could take these back.” He set down the bag and held out his hand to Tommy. “Thanks for letting me come into your home, Tommy. I know that every visitor is a risk.”
Tommy hesitated, and shook his hand. “You’ll learn that when you set up your own house,” he said. “But some visitors are worth it.”
Pax walked a few steps toward the couch where Sandra lay. “How are you doing, sweetie?” he asked.
She looked up at him. The contentment on her face was unmistakable.
“Do you want to see him?” she asked.
He kneeled in front of her. She shifted the bundle in her arms, and pulled back a blanket. He was sleeping, mouth open and eyes closed. His skin was the color of merlot.
“Oh,” Pax said. His eyes burned, and he blinked hard. “He’s beautiful.”
“Isn’t he?” Sandra said.
Rainy came up behind Pax and put a hand on his shoulder. “His name’s Joseph,” she said. “We’re calling him Joe.”
“I heard.” He looked up at her, then back at Tommy. “I guess you all had to scramble to come up with a boy’s name.”
Tommy said, “We certainly didn’t have a list ready.”
“What do you think it means, Paxton?” Rainy asked. “Will all of them from this generation be boys, or is he a fluke, or…?”
“I don’t know,” Pax said. He couldn’t see how a generation of males made much sense from an evolutionary point of view-but right now he didn’t give a damn about the evolutionary point of view. All he knew was that the Changes weren’t over-that they’d never be over. “Every generation is a mystery,” he said.
He reached out and touched the boy’s cheek. Joseph’s lips closed, then opened with a faint smack. “I’m pretty sure, though, that a boy this beautiful is not a mistake.”
Daryl Gregory
DARYL GREGORY’S short stories have appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy Science Fiction, Asimov’s, several year’s-best anthologies, and other fine venues. In 2005 he received the Asimov’s Readers’ Award for the novelette “Second Person, Present Tense.” He lives with his wife and two children in State College, Pennsylvania, where he writes both fiction and web code.
