The Flame Alphabet - Ben Marcus [54]
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.
18
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