Year's Best Weird Fiction: 1

by Laird Barron

He gulps down a mouthful, goes for another. “Why are you saying that?”

  “I believe it, that’s why. Or I’d like to.”

  It’s part instinct, part intuition, part hope. It’s also part giving her esteemed colleagues something to chew on, and part poking said colleagues in the ribs. “The question is, am I going to sound ridiculous?”

  He doesn’t answer, leading her to suspect the worst.

  “I could leave it out. Stick to what we know.”

  “And what is that?”

  “The epigene is a blueprint for change. It’s a paradigm for both stability and adaptation, most notably for individuals, possibly for larger groups. It’s biologically based, but it has much broader implications. One of the best and most powerful is that it’s future-oriented.”

  She stops, fearing from his wandering expression that she’s lost him. Or lost his support. So she brings it back home, using his own words so there can be no doubt or misunderstanding.

  “The epigene is key.”

  More seconds pass without his responding, enough of them for her to realize how important this is to her, how much his opinion matters. At the moment, however, he’s focused on what’s in front of him, a fine thick cake from the pan, which he folds in half, then in quarters, smothering it in syrup, then stuffing the fat, dripping wedge in his mouth, chewing and swallowing it, it seems, in a single act, then wiping his chin and lips with the back of his hand, then licking the hand clean. With a belch he settles back in his chair, and finally, at long last, turns his attention to her.

  Their eyes meet. She feels a jolt, then a quiver. He gets it. Yes. He understands what she’s saying. He understands, and he agrees. She couldn’t be happier.

  But then he speaks.

  “The epigene is nothing. It’s dogmeat. It’s yesterday’s news. The perigene is everything. It’s all-encompassing. All change that has or will occur derives from and is contained in it. All being and all possibility. It and it alone is key.”

  She gapes at him. “The epigene is dogmeat?”

  “Don’t talk to me about the epigene. It pollutes my ears. All eyes should be on the perigene. It’s the source, the nexus, and the crux of existence. It’s Heaven’s Guiding Hand. Heaven’s Crucible. Heaven’s Heaven.”

  “You don’t believe in Heaven.”

  “I’m building Heaven.”

  His eyes gleam, demonically one might think, and she feels what can only be described as an epigenetic shift, which pricks her like a pin as she glimpses a future that may not include the man she adores.

  She’s too shaken at first to reply, but then she gathers herself and finds her voice. It’s not the steadiest, but it’s steady enough.

  “Fine then. Be my guest. Build it.”

  Easy to say, he thinks as he hurries into the yard, and not, in fact, that hard to achieve, not when the fire is raging. It helps that he’s had more than a mere glimpse of his celestial wonder, that he knows, for example, that the perigene occupies another plane of existence. Another dimension? Another universe? The jury’s still out on exactly what and where, but here on Earth, in his representation of it, it exists above and beyond what he’s already built. Obviously, then, to depict it properly requires that he build more, and to this end he’s constructed an ingenious internal ladder that spirals as it rises, nicely echoing the spiraling DNA portrayed by his cables, pipes, and ropes. The ladder projects well above the current peak of the project, which means it is well above the fence. From the top rung, were he so inclined, he could enjoy a fine view of the neighborhood, not to mention the neighbors, all of whom have fenced-in yards of their own. But he has no interest in them. All his attention is focused on the task at hand. Currently this involves welding ten-foot lengths of copper pipe on end and in parallel to a steel plate base, then welding the base to the quartet of pulleys at the top of the structure . . . in effect, projecting the parallel pipes into space. At the topmost end of each pipe he’s bolted a swiveling, laptop-sized screen, remotely programmed and controlled. Rising together, the pipes resemble a line of stout reeds and also a cross-section of the Golgi apparatus, which is to say, a system of transport tubes. Two way transport in Dr. Jim’s fervid and frothy imagination: from the epigene upward, carrying information to the perigene, which is yet to be built, and to the epigene downward from the heavenly p, which lies somewhere in the ether above, and from which vantage it conceives, conducts, and conveys its divine and masterful plan to its genetic and epigenetic underlings. The screens have been partially covered with duct tape (the stickum and glue of impatient inventors and freethinkers) in the shape of an ellipse, leaving a narrow slit exposed. When they light up, they look like eyes, and once the program starts, they’re always going on and off, always blinking, for what self-respecting perigene would ever sleep? What man, for that matter, who every day is drawing closer to the realization of his dream, every day inhabiting it more, would sleep? Not Dr. Jim. Sleep is the furthest thing from his mind. Not that he could if he wanted to: the need, it appears, has been blasted from his brain. And thank goodness for that. To close his eyes now, on the cusp of his epiphany, with his perigene a heartbeat away, would be insane.

  For altogether different reasons, Carol isn’t sleeping either. Her husband is unraveling, and their marriage is hanging by a thread. Couldn’t he have waited? she asks herself. Couldn’t he have chosen his words with more care? Her confidence is shaken, and the conference is now less than a week away.

  She moves to a separate room, which helps. This suggests to her that distance is a good thing, and she takes a room in a motel, which helps more. During the day she’s in her office, honing and polishing her presentation, defending it against attack, both expected and outrageous, such as his, so that by the time of the conference she feels prepared for just about anything.

  The hour arrives. Her paper is met warmly enough, and in one quarter—the activist, anti-social Darwinism bunch—she brings down the house. That evening, at one of the myriad parties spawned by such conferences, she’s approached by a colleague who had the pleasure of hearing her speak. A good-looking guy with all the right moves and a tongue that could charm a dead fish, it’s clear within minutes what he’s after.

  And why not? She’s a prize. She’s a catch. It’s the biological imperative at work.

  Her pants feel suddenly too tight around her hips: biology.

  The heat rises to her face: biology.

  Riot and rebellion lift their lecherous heads. There’s a creature that wants out.

  Law and order respond.

  It’s a bad career move for her.

  She has a husband.

  That husband is a jerk.

  Infidelity is no sin, but recklessness, in her book, is. Not so much because it hurts people, which it does, but because it makes a mess of things. That’s the heart of the crime. It opens the door to chaos, mayhem, and unnecessary complications. Not to mention uncertainty, which is never a good thing.

  So she tells the guy thanks, but no thanks, and excuses herself.

  Later, in her room as she’s readying for bed, still buzzing from what might have been, she takes a moment to study her face in the bathroom mirror. She’s a natural blonde and has never thought to be anything but. Blond and short-haired—for her entire adult life she’s always worn it short. She likes the compact, helmeted look, likes being tidy and meticulous, likes knowing that not one hair will stray from its place from the time she wakes up to the time she lies down at night. Not a hair or a thought. So the idea that she could grow her hair out, that she should grow it out, and not only that, she should dye it, comes as something of a shock.

  She has a glimpse of how she might look. Suppresses a giggle. Stretches her arms. Arches her back. Thinks of her mother. Husbandless and as poor as Mrs. Lamarck. What traits did Mom acquire in her life? What traits did she pass on? Can an inherited trait be gotten rid of, short of being engineered out or waiting for e
ons until it rids itself on its own? Is she right when she postulates, as she has, that its expression can be willfully, mindfully, purposefully controlled?

  It’s the subject for more than a single paper. A book, perhaps, but it won’t be written tonight. Her bed is waiting, neatly made, and she slides in, appreciating the starched, crisp covers. She’s a neat, crisp package herself, no loose ends, nothing wasted, and she’s had a productive and rewarding day. And there’s more to come.

  She, too, keeps a diary, of a different sort from her husband’s, a kind of counterpoint to her language-heavy, idea-dominated, scrupulously governed life. She doesn’t use pencil or pen. Her entries, you could say, are more like dances, storms, music, free-form collages. Her current volume (and there’s a box full of others) is sitting on her bedside table. Propping herself on a pillow and pulling her knees to her chest, she rests it against her thighs and opens it to a fresh page. She stares at the pure white rectangle, letting her mind empty, waiting for the moment of inspiration to make itself known. Tonight it comes quicker than usual, primed, perhaps, by the evening’s events, but it’s no less delicious for that, no less ecstatic, revealing, or fun. Nor is she less herself as she utters a deep-throated moan, then rakes the page with her nails and rips it to shreds.

  The conference is in every way a success for her. By week’s end, after being wined, dined, and courted by no fewer than three eminent deans, followed by a hastily arranged meeting with her own departmental chair, who had not failed to notice the roosters circling what he considers his own personal hen, she feels high as the moon, confident that her dream of tenure is all but assured. Her thoughts turn homeward, to her husband. After a week of separation, her feelings toward him have softened. She can live with their intellectual disagreements. The question is, can she live with him?

  She recalls what attracted her to him in the beginning, the very eccentricity, self-absorption, and independence of thought that feels so petty and selfish to her now. But she doesn’t have to feel this way. As far as self-absorption goes, he’s no worse than she is. Or not much worse. He’s only being himself, just himself, and when all is said and done, who else could he be?

  He’s a man, and men are meant to build . . . how many times has she heard this said? How many times has she written it off as myth, nonsense, bromide, self-aggrandizing, self-perpetuating, male chauvinist, testosterone-induced, delusional crap? But why? There are lines of distinction. She can personally attest to this. Women are meant to bear children, tell stories and, if all goes according to plan, get tenure. (Although the child-bearing part, she’s been told, appears to be changing. This, according to a fellow ethnobiologist she met at the conference. There seems to be an uptick in the number of women worldwide who no longer have an interest in bearing young, or whose interest is muted by other, stronger desires and plans. This, in response to environmental pressures, demographic changes, and a rising tide of prosperity and feminism. From Europe to Japan to Singapore to Taiwan, the birthrate has fallen below the death rate for the first time in a century. Not a bad thing, necessarily, and certainly not bad for her thesis.)

  She decides she can live with his precious perigene. More precisely, she decides she would rather live with it than not live with him. The decision relieves her of a great weight, and she returns home on a wave of optimism, eager to see him, only to find that his creation has grown substantially in her absence and is now visible a block away.

  Not only has it grown in size, there are now pieces of paper attached to it in a variety of shapes, colors and sizes, some of them quite large. There must be thirty in all, and he’s attached them in such a way that they move freely in the breeze, fluttering like flags. But ridiculous-looking flags, stiff and slapdash, like something coughed up by a demented Betsy Ross, making the whole thing, which once had a certain integrity, if not beauty, look ridiculous.

  She pulls into the driveway, climbs out, and as she nears the front door, she gets her first hint, not of the meaning of this new addition of his, which would be too much to expect, but of its effect. Nailed to the door is a rather large piece of butcher paper with a rather explicit message to her and her husband signed by a neighbor.

  The idea that someone, without her permission, would drive a nail into her house is offensive. The idea that the message is directed at both her and husband, i.e., that there’s no distinction made between the two of them, is embarrassing. The idea that her husband is provoking such an attack is a test.

  She tears the paper from the nail and enters the house. The place is a mess, which only reinforces what she already knows, that her husband is besieged by the forces of chaos and needs help. Order needs to be restored, and who better to restore it than herself?

  From Dr. Jim’s Diary:

  Sunday, January 15th. He’s standing when I enter, head up, shoulders thrown back, a steady light of intelligence in his eyes. The cage door is open, but he’s making no attempt to escape.

  “Going somewhere?” I ask.

  He smiles, then opens his arms as if to invite me in and embrace what we both know comes next.

  Trying to disarm me, the little shit. And for a second he does. Then I get a grip on myself, and we fight, although to call it that is a joke. I punch and he receives, not bothering to punch back or defend himself. Afterwards, though, I feel like I’ve gone twenty rounds. My legs and arms are heavy, as if I’ve been leeched of my vital fluids. It’s all I can do to drag my sorry ass upstairs.

  Carol’s in the kitchen. The shock of seeing her revives me. “Where did you come from?”

  “I live here.”

  “You left.”

  “That’s right. For my conference.” She frowns. “You didn’t think I’d walked out on you, did you?”

  The truth—that I haven’t thought about her at all—would doubtlessly upset her. To tell the truth, she already looks upset.

  “I’m glad you’re back,” I tell her honestly.

  “I’m glad, too.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “So I see. Too busy to shower. Too busy to shave. Too busy to change your clothes. Too busy to clean up after yourself.”

  “I’ve been working.”

  “I see that, too.” She glances out the window. “It’s getting bigger.”

  “Bigger and better.”

  “No. Not better. Not even close to better. It’s an eyesore. This has to stop.”

  Her voice is like a cage; her expression, the day of judgment.

  “Take it down,” she says. “Do what you intended to do. Write the damn book. Or don’t. Just stop.”

  “What book?”

  “We had an agreement. Nothing above the fence.”

  “I’ll raise the fence. I’ll levitate it.”

  “You’re offending people.” She thrusts a ragged piece of paper in my face. It’s from the guy next door.

  What he has to say makes me laugh. “He’s a moron.”

  “He’s our neighbor.”

  “Fuck him.”

  “That’s one way to handle it.”

  “It’s none of his business.”

  “I disagree.”

  “It’s none of your business, either.”

  She gives me a long look, then nods, as if this settles something. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  They start the night in the same bed, but once Carol’s asleep, Dr. Jim slips out and heads to the patch of grass in the yard beside the ladder at the center of his creation. This has been his bed for several days. It’s where he feels most himself, which is not to say most at ease, because he’s far from that. He’s too driven and excited to be at ease, as if someone has a foot on the gas, and not only that, they’re doing the steering. It’s a high-octane, exhilarating ride, and even though there’s a cliff ahead, and after the cliff a field of razor-sharp rocks, and after the rocks a team of horses just dying to tear him limb from limb, he wouldn’t trade it for any
thing. A few more days, a few more visits to the basement, and the mighty perigene will be his. Besides, cliffs and rocks are for mortals, and horses, especially wild ones, are kin.

  Needless to say, this is no time for sleep. All systems are on full alert, antennae tuned to maximum reception, and he spends the night conversing with the moon and stars, absorbing all he can and channeling what he learns to the task at hand. When not in conversation, he’s pacing the yard like an expectant father. Carol’s reappearance couldn’t have come at a better time: she has stuck with him for the long gestation and now she’ll be present for the birth. He faces east, exhorting the night to end so that he can get to work.

  Daylight comes at last and he rushes inside, only to find a lock on the door to the basement. A shiny new hasp, mocking him like a smiley face with its rictus of false goodwill. He’s sickened, wounded even, but hardly deterred. The only real question is how to remove it: slowly and carefully with a screwdriver, sparing the door and the trim, or instantly, with a hammer and crowbar, using brute force? It’s another one of those questions that answers itself.

  Carol’s waiting when he emerges from his lair. It’s no time to talk. His business is outside. But when he attempts to brush past her, she blocks his way.

  “You going to clean that up?”

  Islands and splinters of wood litter the floor. He could care less, but to avoid a quarrel he kicks them downstairs.

  “That’s not cleaning,” she says.

  He locates the lock on the floor, hanging limply from its hasp, picks it up, and thrusts it in her face. “Since when did the Nazis arrive?”

  Her face curdles.

  “The Enemy is here,” he spits.

  “No. The Enemy is not here. Reason, however, is.”

  It’s sad almost. How little she understands and how out of touch she is. With him and with reality.

  “Reason? You want reason?” He hurls the lock at the window, somehow missing it and hitting the wall instead.

  She doesn’t flinch. “Having a tantrum, are we?”