Read Online All the Beautiful Sinners by Stephen Graham Jones - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen Graham Jones
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vent, flipped the wooden slats open.
Her hair didn’t blow. There was no wind.
For the first time in ever.
“Let’s go,” Gerry Box said, holding his head where he’d hit it.
Jim Doe’s sister looked back to him, her lower lip gently bit between her side teeth, and then to Jim Doe, and then the slats she was holding open all slammed shut at once. Sucked shut.
She looked at them like they didn’t make sense, and then the whole circle vent was sucked backwards, flipped out like a coin into nothing. Into the sky.
And then they heard it.
The storm wasn’t over. It was just beginning.
For a flash, Jim Doe saw it, even, a winding black column connecting the ground to the clouds, like the finger of God reaching down, and then the roof shifted over their heads and the world was moving again. Fast, and hard.
Gerry Box screamed, one of his legs going through the floor where he wasn’t supposed to step, and Jim Doe’s sister dove for him, to keep him from falling through, and Jim Doe just looked outside again.
The whole sky was black.
Where they going somewhere else, now?
Jim Doe looked back to his sister to explain, and he could see her mouth, knew she had to be screaming, that she was screaming with her whole entire body, but for some reason, he couldn’t hear her.
He smiled a little bit, cocked his head over to try to understand what she was doing, why she would be acting like she was screaming if she wasn’t, and then the front wall of the attic disappeared, crumbled away all at once.
Jim Doe stepped back to keep from falling, and both his legs went through their floor—what was usually the ceiling—and then he was down to his armpits but it didn’t hurt.
And then the whole house fell down on itself, the roof somehow holding mostly together, and all the sound caught up and Jim Doe tried to scream with it, to let his sister know where he was, and then suddenly, like he’d blinked it away, all the sound was gone. And the wind.
Outside, he could hear things drifting down from the sky, like the sky had just decided to let them go. Like it was done with them for now.
He said his sister’s name but she didn’t answer, and then he kicked his feet like swimming. His right foot was maybe touching the couch, or his dad’s chair. Or somebody’s stomach.
He pulled it back, cried, called louder for his sister, fell asleep twice and four times heard somebody walking past. But they never came to his house.
Until the fireman.
Jim Doe watched him pick his way through the rubble, touching the head of his axe to this broken fence, that lost-forever birdbath. Once, a dog that flapped its tail against the ground to be petted, and then didn’t flap its tail anymore after the fireman left.
The fireman was how he knew it was going to be all right.
Except he didn’t come straight to him, but instead went to the other end of the house.
When Jim Doe saw him again, he was leading Gerry Box away by the hand. And Jim Doe’s sister, half her face slick with blood.
“Hey,” Jim Doe called, “me too,” but his chest was still hollow from crying and they didn’t hear him, and, later, when he told about it, all the firemen shook their heads no, sorry, kid, and when the two police asked, who were there for the dead fireman, Jim Doe couldn’t even speak, they were so tall, their voices so deep, and finally he only told the sheriff, who told him he’d imagined it, that anybody would have.
And maybe he had.
Except his sister and Gerry Box never came back, and never came back, were dead like everybody said, and for most of his sixth grade year, the kid starting the fires all around Nazareth, Texas, he wasn’t doing it because he thought the flames were pretty, or because he wanted to burn anything. He did it to bring the fireman back, so he could ask where his sister was. And Gerry Box.
And then the sheriff found him one day fanning some kindling on the playground, and helped him put it out, and didn’t tell
Her hair didn’t blow. There was no wind.
For the first time in ever.
“Let’s go,” Gerry Box said, holding his head where he’d hit it.
Jim Doe’s sister looked back to him, her lower lip gently bit between her side teeth, and then to Jim Doe, and then the slats she was holding open all slammed shut at once. Sucked shut.
She looked at them like they didn’t make sense, and then the whole circle vent was sucked backwards, flipped out like a coin into nothing. Into the sky.
And then they heard it.
The storm wasn’t over. It was just beginning.
For a flash, Jim Doe saw it, even, a winding black column connecting the ground to the clouds, like the finger of God reaching down, and then the roof shifted over their heads and the world was moving again. Fast, and hard.
Gerry Box screamed, one of his legs going through the floor where he wasn’t supposed to step, and Jim Doe’s sister dove for him, to keep him from falling through, and Jim Doe just looked outside again.
The whole sky was black.
Where they going somewhere else, now?
Jim Doe looked back to his sister to explain, and he could see her mouth, knew she had to be screaming, that she was screaming with her whole entire body, but for some reason, he couldn’t hear her.
He smiled a little bit, cocked his head over to try to understand what she was doing, why she would be acting like she was screaming if she wasn’t, and then the front wall of the attic disappeared, crumbled away all at once.
Jim Doe stepped back to keep from falling, and both his legs went through their floor—what was usually the ceiling—and then he was down to his armpits but it didn’t hurt.
And then the whole house fell down on itself, the roof somehow holding mostly together, and all the sound caught up and Jim Doe tried to scream with it, to let his sister know where he was, and then suddenly, like he’d blinked it away, all the sound was gone. And the wind.
Outside, he could hear things drifting down from the sky, like the sky had just decided to let them go. Like it was done with them for now.
He said his sister’s name but she didn’t answer, and then he kicked his feet like swimming. His right foot was maybe touching the couch, or his dad’s chair. Or somebody’s stomach.
He pulled it back, cried, called louder for his sister, fell asleep twice and four times heard somebody walking past. But they never came to his house.
Until the fireman.
Jim Doe watched him pick his way through the rubble, touching the head of his axe to this broken fence, that lost-forever birdbath. Once, a dog that flapped its tail against the ground to be petted, and then didn’t flap its tail anymore after the fireman left.
The fireman was how he knew it was going to be all right.
Except he didn’t come straight to him, but instead went to the other end of the house.
When Jim Doe saw him again, he was leading Gerry Box away by the hand. And Jim Doe’s sister, half her face slick with blood.
“Hey,” Jim Doe called, “me too,” but his chest was still hollow from crying and they didn’t hear him, and, later, when he told about it, all the firemen shook their heads no, sorry, kid, and when the two police asked, who were there for the dead fireman, Jim Doe couldn’t even speak, they were so tall, their voices so deep, and finally he only told the sheriff, who told him he’d imagined it, that anybody would have.
And maybe he had.
Except his sister and Gerry Box never came back, and never came back, were dead like everybody said, and for most of his sixth grade year, the kid starting the fires all around Nazareth, Texas, he wasn’t doing it because he thought the flames were pretty, or because he wanted to burn anything. He did it to bring the fireman back, so he could ask where his sister was. And Gerry Box.
And then the sheriff found him one day fanning some kindling on the playground, and helped him put it out, and didn’t tell
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