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More soldiers appeared around each end of the truck, and some under the truck, aiming their rifles up at them. Do
God she was fierce, and so beautiful. But there were so many soldiers, and their weapons could shred metal. They would kill her. He pushed himself to all fours, grimacing. He hoped that she was wrong, that there really were such things as souls.
Then he heard her bellow in pain. A great weight inside him trembled, shifted, and suddenly tumbled down.
He ran to her side.
Chapter 19
FOR THE FIRST hour and a half of the service Paxton felt as if he were floating above the congregation: apart from the proceedings, immune, unmoved.
Reverend Hooke, dressed in a billowing dark dress that made her look strangely bulky, had started the service with a long prayer that expanded in a widening circle to take in all nouns. She prayed not only for Deke and Do
She had no other sermon. There was no program, she said, no plan; the spirit would lead. Then she opened the pulpit to anyone who wanted to speak.
The first to come forward was an argo woman. She stood at the podium, between two huge caskets of dark gleaming wood. Like all argo necessities, they were custom creations. They’d been fashioned by Deke’s employees in the same shop where they’d created the argo-sized pews that this morning had been carried in to fill the front of the sanctuary. For once, the argos were not going to sit in the back.
Paxton found it hard to focus on what the argo woman was saying, or on what was said by the others who came after her. Most were argos, but people from other clades also felt called to say something. Sometimes they spoke only about Deke, sometimes only about Do
Do
His father would have been crying by now, Paxton was sure. Harlan had been stu
The stories and testimonials went on and on. The church was packed as full as he’d ever seen it, and the doors were propped open so that the scores of people standing outside could hear. There were no reporters inside or out, no nonresidents at all-those had been bussed to an alternate quarantine site near Louisville, Kentucky. Already some of those reporters had been examined and declared clear of TDS-causing plasmids-whatever those were. Neither were there soldiers; they’d pulled back to their improvised headquarters at the Cherokee Hotel and to the newly reopened and fortified checkpoints. No one except the National Guardsmen had entered the town in three days.
Pax knew that he should stand up and speak for his friend. Who else here could tell about the boy he’d been before the Changes, before he’d become the Chief? The baseball fanatic who so loved a good game that he’d once broken a finger in the third i
Reverend Hooke stood in silence, waiting for anyone else to step forward.
Pax gripped the pew in front of him and stared at his hand. He could pull himself up, walk to the front. But his hand would not unclench, and seemed to become something alien, a knuckled stump that did not belong to him. A foreign object attached to someone else’s arm. His body felt heavy as river stone.
And then the reverend nodded to a back row, and the moment passed. His hand fell into his lap.
Aunt Rhonda came slowly forward, an immensity in pink like a parade float: pale pink dress and jacket, a wide pink hat with a brim ringed with white flowers, pink eye shadow and lipstick. Her lilac perfume followed like a bridal train.
Rhonda stepped up on a hidden riser and regarded them over the podium. Her mouth was pursed, and her mascara had smeared darkening her eyes. It was the first evidence Pax had ever seen that the woman could cry.
He could no more concentrate on the words of her eulogy than he could anyone else’s, but he took note that her voice often trembled and at times broke, and that what appeared to be actual moisture made her eyes gleam. Performance or true passion? He couldn’t decide. Maybe a smart person could tell the difference. The people around him certainly seemed to be moved. Their tears flowed; they leaned toward her, rapt.
“They call us freaks,” Rhonda said. “They call us mistakes. They call us u
“They thought they could contain them,” Rhonda said. “But Deke and Do
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-ski
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.